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HANDBOUND

AT THE

UNIVERSITY OF
TORONTO PRFSS

9 j

THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY

A MAGAZINE OF

literature, Science, Slrt, anD

VOLUME Lin.

BOSTON
HOUGHTON, MIFFLTN AND COMPANY

NEW YORK: 11 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET

Btoersiie Press, Cambridge

1884

BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.

RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE :

ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY

E. 0. HOUGIITOS AND COMPANY.

CONTENTS.

PAOl

Annexation of Heaven, The 135

Annina Charles Dunning 634

Appleton, Thomas Gold Oliver Wendell Holmes 848

Arnold, Matthew, as a Poet Harriet Waters Preston 641

At Bent's Hotel E. W. Bellamy 631

Beauregard, General 551

Bird of Solitude, The Olive Thorne Miller 753

Bishop's Vagabond, The Octave Thanet 26

Bonrget's Essais de Psychologie Contemporaine 857

Bulwer, Edward, Lord Lytton 717

Champs Elysees, The 540

Chester Streets H. H. 12

Confederate Cruisers, The 260

Crawford's, Mr., To Leeward . . " • • 277

Be Longueville, Madame : An Outline Portrait Maria Louise Henry 497

Discovery of Peruvian Bark, The Henry M. Lyman 334

Don John of Austria Alexander Young 375

Drifting Down Lost Creek Charles Egbert Craddock .... 362, 441

En Province Henry James 217, 515, 623

English Folk-Lore and London Humors • 432

Fate of Mansfield Humphreys, The Richard Grant White . : 3

Fiction, Recent American 707

Francesca da Rimini 430

Greater Britain and the United States 271

Hafiz of Shiraz E. P. Evans .94

Hessians in the Revolution, The 855

History of Sculpture, The 279

Hutchinson, Governor Thomas George E. Ellis 662

Illustrated Books 131

In Madeira Place C. H. White 229

In War Time S. Weir Mitchell . 1, 153, 297, 483, 651, 759

Irving, Henry Henry A. Clapp 418

Journal of a Hessian Baroness, The 351

Julian's Political Recollections 560

Keats, The American Edition of 422

Latest of " The Virgilians,': The 571

Linguistic Palaeontology E. P. Evans 613

Literary Studies, Two 850

Mr. Washington Adams, A Sequel to Richard Grant White 108

New Party, The J. Laurence Laughiin 837

Newport George Parsons iMthrop 79, 206

Old War Horse to a Young Politician, An William H. McElroy 780

Paris Classical Concerts 739

Penury not Pauperism D. O. Kellogg 771

Phillida and Coridon Bradford Torrey 526

Pisan Winter, A E. D. R. Bianciardi 320

Political Field, The E. V. SmaUey 124

Presidential Nominations Oliver T. Morton 455

Progress of Nationalism, The Edward Stanwood 701

Question of Ships, The 859

Recent Travel 563

Red Sunset^ The N. S. Shaler 475

Reminiscences of Christ's Hospital . .v J. M. Hillyar 251

Return of a Native, The Edith M. Thomas 508

Roman Singer, A F. Marion Crawford . 56, 183, 339, 464, 585,

729

Seward, William H Henry Cabot Lodge 682

Shakespeare, William, The Anatomizing of Richard Grant Wliite 595,815

Silver Danger, The «/". Laurence Laughiin 677

Contents.

Sources of Early Israelitish History, The Philip H. Wick.iteed 387

Study of Greek, The A. P. Peabody 71

Texts and Translations of Hafiz E. P. Evans 309

Trail of the Sea-Serpent, The J- G. Wood 799

Trollope's, Mr., Latest Character 267

Turgenieff, Ivan Henry James 42

Tuttle's History of Prussia 713

Vagabonds and Criminals of India, The Elizabetli Robins 194

Visit to South Carolina in 18GO, A Edward G. Mason 241

Voices of Power O. B. Frolhingliam 170

Washington as it Should Be O. B. Frothingham 841

Wentwortlfs Crime Frank Parks 787

POETRY.

Arbutus, The, H. H. 622 Lepage's Joan of Are, Helen Grey Cone .... 86

At the Saturday Club, Oliver Wendell Holmes . . 68 Marshal Niel, T. B. Altlrich 700

Beach-Plum, The, E. S. F 758 Memory, A, A. A. Dayton 216

Christening, The, S. M. B. Piatt 779 Night in New York, George Parsons Latlirop . . 496

Deisidaimonia, A. F. 350 To a Poet in the City, Thomas William Parsons . 798

Dew of Parnassus, Edith M. Thomas 640 To-Day, Helen Grey Cone . 228

Foreshadowing*, Julia. C. H. Dorr 259 Trio for Twelfth-Night, A, H. Bernard Carpenter 166

Girdle of Friendship, The, Oliver Wendell Holmes 386 Unheard Music, Ed/mind W. Gos.se 130

Haroun Al Kaschid, Helen Grey Cone .... 463 Way to Arcady, The, H. C. Banner 333

BOOK REVIEWS.

Ashton's Humor, Wit, and Satire of the Seven- Keats's Poems 422

teen th Century 432 Kelley's The Question of Ships 859

Baker's Blessed Ghost 141 Little Pilgrim, A 136

Barnes's Memoir of Thurlow Weed 684 Lowell's The Hessians and the other German

Bicknell's Ilafiz of Shiraz 312 Auxiliaries of Great Britain in the Revolution-

Bodenstedt's Der Sanger von Schiras 316 ary War ...» 836

Bourget's Essais de Psychologie Contemporaine . 857 Mitchell's History of Ancient Sculpture . . . 279

Bread-Winners, The 708 O'Kell's John Bull and his Island 570

Brockhaus's Die Lieder des Hafis 309 Perkins's Historical Handbook of Italian Sculp-

Bulloch's Secret Service of the Confederate States ture 2S1

in Europe 260 Phelpt's Beyond the Gates 138

Bulwer's Life, Letters, and Literary Remains . . 718 Poe's Raven 131

Crawford's To Leeward 277 Roman's Military Operations of General Beaure-

Dyer's Folk- Lore of Shakespeare 432 gard in the War between the States 551

Fawcett's Ambitious Woman 710 Saltus's Balzac 850

Field's Among the Holy Hills 568 Scott's Renaissance of Art in Italy 134

Fleming's Vestigia 707 Seeley's Expansion of England 271

Genung's Tennyson's In Memoriam 853 Seward, Wm. II., The Works of 684

Grey's Elegy written in a Country Churchyard Speed's Letters of John Keats 422

(Artists' Edition) . 134 Tennyson's Princess 133

Grey's Elegy written in a Country Churchyard Trollope's Autobiography 267

(Fenn?s Edition) 133 Trumbull's Kadesh-Barnea 565

Hawthorne's Beatrix Randolph 711 Tuttle's History of Prussia 713

Hutchinson's Diary and Letters 665 Warner's Roundabout Journey 568

Ingelow's High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire 134 Wilstach's Works of Virgil 572

James's Portraits of Places . 569 Yriarte's Francoise de Rimini dans la Le"gende et

James's Wild Tribes of the Soudan 563 dans 1'Histoire 430

Jewett's Mate of the Daylight 712 Zincke's Plough and the Dollar 276

Julian's Political Recollections 660

CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB.

Adventure, An, 143; Artists and Actors, 145 ; " As " and " That," 680 ; Attraction of Opposites, The, 437 ; Au-
tograph Hunters, 581 ; Beleaguered City, A, 579 ; Biblical Expurgator, A, 861 ; Chez Worth, 282 ; Concerning
Separateness, 291 ; Daudet, Alphonse, 724 ; Dies Iras, The, 723 ; French and English, 435 ; Frost and Moon-
shine, 722 ; II and R in the " American Language," 290 ; Ignorant Criticism, 578 ; Imagination, Creative and
Receptive, 146; Long Calls, 146 ; Moral Cross-Breeds, 864 ; Motto for the Wa<te Basket, £91; Oak Galls, 863;
One and the Other, The, 437 ; Perils of Shrewdness. The, 721; Railway Impressions, 144; Rhymed Letter by
Lowell, A, 576; South Carolina " Cracker " Dialect in The Bishop's Vagabond, The, 436: Translation from
B(5ranger, A, 292 ; Turning Points, 862 ; Washington Crows, 580 ; Water-Fowl, A, 438 ; Winter Files, 288 ;
Woman who shuts her Eyes, The, 287 ; Yankeeisms, 286.

BOOKS OF THE MONTH 148, 293, 439, 582, 727, 866

THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY:
at #laga$ine of Literature, Science, art, ana

VOL. LIU. — JANUARY, 1884. — No. OOCXV.

IN WAR TIME.

IK the latter part of the afternoon of
a summer day in the year 1863, a little
crowd gathered near the door of the
military hospital on Filbert Street, in
the city of Philadelphia. Like the rest
of the vast camps of the sick, which
added in those days to the city popula-
tion some twenty-five thousand of the
maimed and ill, this one has been lost,
in the healing changes with which civil-
izing progress, no less quickly than for-
giving nature, is apt to cover the traces
of war.

The incident which drew to the hos-
pital gate a small crowd was common in
those days. Ambulances were bringing
to its portal a share of such wounded
men as were fit to be removed to a dis-
tance from Gettysburg and distributed
among the great hospitals of the North.
A surgeon in green sash and undress
army uniform stood bareheaded with-
in the shade of the doorway. Beside
the curbstone, near the ambulances, a
younger man, an assistant surgeon, di-
rected the attendants, as they bore the
wounded into the building on stretchers
between double lines of soldiers of the
invalid corps, who at that time did guard
duty in our hospitals.

The surgeon at the doorway, a tall,
refined-looking man, so erect as to seem
a little stiff in figure, made occasional

comments in a quiet, well-bred voice,
rather monotonously free from the de-
cisive sharpness which habits of com-
mand are apt to produce.

" Step together, my men. Left, right

— you shake the stretcher ! Left, right

— make more room there, sergeant.
Keep back the crowd."

Sometimes, a man got out of the am-
bulance with help, and limped eagerly
into the open doorway ; sometimes, lost
to all around him, one was borne in mo-
tionless ; sometimes, it was a face to
which death had already whispered,
" Come." In the little hall the bearers
paused, while a young surgeon asked a
few brief questions, after which the sick
man was given his iced lemonade, or
some other refreshing drink, and taken
away.

Now and then an officer was carried
in. This was usually some desperately
wounded man, unable to be taken to his
home. As these sufferers passed the
surgeon in charge, he noted the scrap
of uniform, or the cap, and drawing him-
self up, saluted with excessive military
accuracy. Were the man too ill or too
careless to notice this courtesy, a faint
lift of the surgeon's brow, some slight
treachery of the features, showed that
he, at least, felt that nothing less than
paralysis would have prevented him
from returning the military salutation.

Meanwhile, about two squares away,

In War Time.

[January,

as Philadelphians say, a man and wo-
man were walking somewhat rapidly to-
ward the hospital. The man was what is
known iu the army as a " contract-assist-
ant surgeon," that is, a physician taken
from civil life and paid at a certain rate
per month to do the duty of a military
surgeon. In some cases these gentlemen
lived in the hospitals, and were of course
expected to wear uniform, and to submit
to all the usual rules of military life.
Others merely attended at set hours, and
included not only certain of the most
able men in the profession of medicine,
but also a great number of the more
or less competent, glad enough of the
eighty dollars a month which they re-
ceived. Among these latter were many of
those hapless persons who drift through
life, and seize, as they are carried along,
such morsels of good luck as the great
tides of fortune float within reach of their
feeble tentacula. This con tract surgeon
was a man of full middle height. He
stooped slightly, but the habit became
oddly noticeable owing to his uniform,
on which the surgeon iu charge insisted
during the time of the hospital visit.
He wore a military cap, under which his
hair curled softly. His features were
distinct but delicate, and the upper lip,
which was short, retreated a little, a
peculiarity apt to give to the counte-
nance a certain purity of expression.
His face was clean shaved, but he had
better have worn a mustache, since the
mouth was too regular for manly beauty.
As he went by, two sun-browned young
fellows in uniform, and wearing their
corps marks, turned and glanced at him.
One of them said, " What an interesting
face ! " The other returned, smiling,
" But what a careless figure ! and a sol-
dier with a sun umbrella is rather droll."
In fact, there was a certain look of in-
difference to appearances about the
man's whole aspect, and the umbrella
which had excited remark was carried at
a lazy slope over the shoulder. Evident-
ly, he felt very keenly the damp, oppres-

sive heat of the July day ; but while this
was seen in the indolent slowness of his
walk, his face showed plainly that the
mind was more alive than the body. As
they crossed the small park then known
as Penu Square, he paused to pick up a
flower, counted its stamina, and stowed
it away in the lining of his cap. An in-
sect on his sister's sleeve drew his atten-
tion. The trees, the passers-by, a mon-
key and a hand-organ at a street corner,
all seemed to get in turn a share of alert,
attentive regard.

The woman beside him was a strange
contrast. Unmindful of anything about
her, she walked on steadily with a firm,
elastic step, and a face which, however
pleasing, — and it was distinctly that, —
was not remarkable for decided expres-
sion. Whatever might have been her
fortunes, time as yet had failed to leave
upon her face any strong lines of char-
acterization. Absolute health offers a
certain resistance to these grim chisel-
ings of face ; and in this woman ruddy
cheeks, clear eyes, and round facial lines
above a plump but well-built and com-
pact frame told of a rarely wholesome
life. She was dressed in gray linen, fit-
ting her well, but without cuffs, collar,
or ribbon ; and although the neatness
of her guise showed that it must have
exacted some care, it was absolutely de-
void of ornament. In her hand she car-
ried a rather heavy basket, which now
and then she shifted from one side to
the other, for relief.

Presently they turned into Filbert
Street from Broad Street.

" Do look, Ann ! " said Dr. Wendell
to his sister. " I never pass this paper
mulberry-tree without a sense of disgust.
There is a reptilian vileness of texture
and color about the trunk ; and don't
you remember how, when we were chil-
dren, we used to try to find two leaves
alike ? Don't you think, Ann, there is
something exasperating about that ? I
was trying to think why it annoyed me
now. It is such a contradiction to the

1884.]

In War Time.

tendency of nature towards monotonous
repetition."

" You had best be trying to hurry up
a little," returned Miss Wendell.

" Do give me that basket, dear," said
her companion, pausing; " it is much too
heavy for you. I should have carried
it myself."

" It is not heavy," she said, smiling,
" and I am very, well used to it. But I
do think, brother Ezra, we must hur-
ry. Why cannot you hurry ? You are
half an hour late now, and do look at
your vest ! It is buttoned all crooked,
and — Why, there is quite a crowd at
the hospital door ! Oh, why were you
so late ! and they do fuss so when you
are late."

" I see, I see," he said. " What can
it be ? I wish it was n't so hot. Do
hurry, Ann ! "

The woman smiled faintly. " Yes,
it is warm. Here, take this basket. I
am tired out." Upon which, somewhat
reluctantly lowering his umbrella, he
took the basket, and quickened his pace.
A large man, solidly built, drove by in a
victoria, with servants on the box, him-
self in cool white. Dr. Wendell glanced
at him as he passed, and thought, " That
looks like the incarnation of success ! "
and wondered vaguely what lucky fates
had been that man's easy ladders. Very
successful men and people who have had
many defeats both get to be supersti-
tious believers in blind fortune, while a
certain amount of misfortune destroys
in some all the germs of success. For
others, a failure is like a blow. It may
stagger, but it excites to forceful action.

" Come ! " said his sister, looking as
worried and flushed as if she, and not
he, had been to blame ; and in a minute
or two they were entering the hospital.

" Good-evening, Miss Wendell," said
the surgeon; "excuse me — don't stand
in the way. A moment, Dr. Wendell,
— a moment," he added, saluting him;
and glancing, with a gentleman's in-
stinct, after Miss Wendell, to be sure

she was out of hearing. Then turning,
he said to his subordinate, " You are a
full half hour late ; in fact," taking out
his watch, " the clock misled me, — you
are thirty-nine minutes late. Sergeant,
don't let me see that clock wrong again.
It should be set every morning."

Wendell flushed. Like most men who
think over-well of themselves, he was sen-
sitive to all reproof, and the training of
civil life, while it had made more or less
of hardship easy to bear, had unfitted
him for the precision which that army
surgeon exacted alike from his juniors
and his clocks.

"I was somewhat delayed," said
Wendell.

" Ah ? No matter about excuses. You,
we all of us, are portions of a machine.
I never excuse myself to myself, or to
others. Yes — yes — I know " — as
Wendell began again to explain. At this
moment the soldiers set down at his feet
a stretcher just removed from an am-
bulance, while another set of bearers
took their places.

The surgeon saluted the new-comer
on his little palliasse, noting that around
him lay a faded coat of Confederate
gray, with a captain's stripes on the
shoulders. The wounded man returned
the salute with his left arm.

" You were hurt at Gettysburg ? "
said the surgeon.

" Yes, sir. On Cemetery Hill ; and a
damned hard fight, too ! We were most
all left there. I shall never see a bet-
ter fight if I go to heaven ! "

The attendants laughed, but the sur-
geon's face rested unmoved.

" I hope you will soon be well."
Then he added kindly, " Dr. Wendell,
see that this gentleman is put in Wunl
Two, near a window, and give him some
milk punch at once ; he looks pale. No
lemonade ; milk punch. Come now. my
men ; move along ! Who next ? Ah,
Major Morton, I have been expecting
you ! " and he bent to shake hands
warmly with a sallow man who filled

In War Time.

[January,

the next stretcher. " I am sorry and
glad to see you here. I got your dis-
patch early to-day. Gettysburg, too, I
suppose ? "

" Yes, Cemetery Hill. I wonder the
old Fifth has any one alive ! "

" Well, well," replied the surgeon,
" we shall give you a health brevet
soon. Bed Number Five, next to the
last man. Take good care of Major
Morton, Dr. Wendell. He is an old
friend of mine. There, easy, my men !
I will presently see to you myself, Mor-
ton."

And so the long list of sick and hurt
were carried in, one by one, a small
share of the awful harvest of Gettys-
burg, until, as night fell, the surgeon
turned and entered the hospital, the
sentinel resumed his place at the open
door, and the crowd of curious scattered
and passed away.

Meanwhile, Dr. Wendell went mood-
ily up-stairs to the vast ward which oc-
cupied all the second floor of the old
brick armory. He was one of those un-
happy people who are made sore for
days by petty annoyances ; nor did the
possession of considerable intelligence
and much imagination help him. In
fact, these qualities served only, as is
usual in such natures, to afford him a
more ample fund of self-torment. In
measuring himself with others, he saw
that in acquisitions and mind he was
their superior, and he was constantly
puzzled to know why he failed where
they succeeded.

The vast hall which he entered was
filled with long rows of iron bedsteads,
each with its little label for the owner's
name, rank, disease, and treatment sus-
pended from the iron cross-bar above the
head of the sufferer. Beside each bed
stood a small wooden table, with one or
two bottles and perhaps a book or two
upon it. The walls were whitewashed,
the floor was scrupulously clean, and an
air of extreme and even accurate neat-
ness pervaded the place. Except for the

step of a nurse, or occasional words be-
tween patients near to one another, or
the flutter of the fans which some of
them were using to cool themselves in
the excessive heat, there was but little
noise.

Dr. Wendell followed the litters and
saw the two officers, gray coat and blue
coat, placed comfortably in adjoining
beds.

" Are you all right ? " said Wendell
to the Confederate.

" Oh, yes, doctor ! I 've had too hard
a time to growl. This is like heaven ;
it 's immensely like heaven ! "

Miss Wendell had followed them, af-
ter distributing here and there some of
the contents of her basket.

" Stop," she said to her brother ; " let
them lift him. There," she added, with
a satisfied air, as she shook up and re-
placed the pillow, — " there, that is bet-
ter ! Here are two or three ripe peaches.
You said it was like heaven. Don't you
think all pleasant things ought to make
us think of heaven ? "

" Oh, by George," he replied ; " my
dear lady, did you ever have a bullet in
your shoulder ? I can't think, for tor-
ment. I can only feel."

" That may have its use, too," said
she, simply. " I have been told that
pain is a great preacher."

The patient smiled grimly. " He gets
a fellow's attention, any way, if that 's
good preaching ! "

" Ann, Ann ! " exclaimed her brother.
" Don't talk to him. Don't talk, espe-
cially any — I mean, he is too tired."

" I do not think I hurt him, brother,"
she returned, in a quiet aside. " But
there are errands which may not be
delayed to wait for our times of ease."

" Oh, it is no matter, doctor," said
the officer, smiling, as he half heard Dr.
Wendell's comment. " I like it. Don't
say a word. It would be a pleasure
even to be scolded by a woman. It is
all right, I know! Thank you, miss.
A little water, please." And then the

1884.]

In War Time.

doctor and his sister turned to the other
bed.

" Major Morton, I believe?" said the
doctor.

" Yes, John Morton, Fifth Pennsyl-
vania Reserves. Confound the bed,
doctor, how hard it is ! Are all your
beds like this ? It 's all over hummocks,
like a damson pie ! "

The doctor felt- that somehow he was
accused.

" I never noticed it," said Wendell.
" The beds are not complained of."

" But I complain of it. However, I
shall get used to it, I suppose. There
must be at least six feathers in the pil-
low ! "

" It is n't feather. It is hair," re-
marked Miss Wendell. " That 's much
cooler, you know."

" Cooler ! " replied the major. " It's

red hot. Everything is red hot ! But

I suppose it is myself. Confound the

flies ! I wonder what the deuce they 're

. for ! Could n't I have a net ? "

"Flies?" reflected Miss Wendell.
" They must be right — but — but they
are dirty ! " She wisely, however, kept
silence as to the place and function of
flies in nature. " I will ask for a net,"
she said.

" Oh, yes, do," he returned ; " that 's
a good woman."

" I am not a good woman," exclaimed
Miss Wendell, "but I will ask about
the net."

" Oh, but you will be, if you get me a
net," continued the patient. " And ask,
too, please, about my wife. She was
to be in the city to-day."

He spoke like one used to command,
and as if his discomforts were to receive
instant attention. In the field no man
was easier pleased, or less exacting about
the small comforts of camp, but the re-
turn to a city seemed to let loose all the
habitual demands of a life of ease.

Dr. Wendell promised to see about
the lady.

Mrs. Morton was to come from Sara-

toga, and why could not Dr. Lagrange
see him at oiice 't Every one kept him
waiting, and he supposed Mrs. Morton
would keep him waiting, like every one
else.

At length Miss Wendell said, "My
brother has his duties here, sir. I think
I can go and see about it. You must
needs feel troubled concerning your
wife. As you look for her to-day, I
might meet her at the depot, because,
if, as you have said, she does not know
to what hospital you have been taken,
she will be in great distress, — great dis-
tress, I should think."

" Yes, great distress," repeated Major
Morton, with an odd gleam of amuse-
ment on his brown face. " But how
will you know her ? Stop ! Yes —
she telegraphed me she would come by
an afternoon train to-morrow, and I am
a day too soon, you see."

" There are only three trains," said
Miss Wendell, looking at the time-table
in an evening paper, which an orderly
had been sent to find. "I can go to
them all, if you wish. I do not mind
taking trouble for our wounded soldiers.
It is God's cause, sir. Don't let it worry
you."

Morton's mustache twitched with the
partly controlled merriment of the hid-
den lips beneath it. There was, for his
nature, some difficulty in seeing rela-
tions between a large belief and small
duties. There was the Creator, of whom
he thought with vagueness, and who
certainly had correct relations to Christ
Church; but what had he to do with a
woman going to look for another wo-
man at a depot ?

" You might tell my sister, major,
what Mrs. Morton is like," suggested
Dr. Wendell.

" Like ? " returned Morton, rather
wearily, and then again feebly amused
at the idea of describing his wife.
" Like, like ? By George, that 's a droll
idea ! "

Most of us, in fact, would have a little

In War Time.

trouble in accurately delineating for a
stranger the people familiar to us, and
would, if abruptly required to do so, be
apt to hesitate, or, like the major, to halt
altogether.

" Like ? " he again said. " God bless
me ! why, I could n't describe myself ! "

" But her gown ? " said Miss Wen-
dell, with ingenuity, and remembering,
with a sense of approval of her own
cleverness, that she herself, having but
two gowns, might through them, at
least, be identified.

Major Morton laughed. " Gown ?
She may have had twenty gowns since
I saw her. It is quite eighteen months.
You might look for a tall woman, rather
simply dressed, — handsome woman, I
may say. Small boy with her, a maid,
and no end of bundles, bags, rugs, — all
that sort of thing. You must know."

Miss Wendell was not very clear in
her own mind that she did know, but,
seeing that the wounded man was tired,
accepted his description as sufficient, and
said cheerfully, " No doubt I shall find
her. Good-night."

"Beg pardon, doctor, but I didn't
quite catch your name," said the pa-
tient.

" My name is Wendell, — Dr. Wen-
dell," returned the doctor.

" Thanks ; and one thing more, doc-
tor : send me some opium, and soon, too.
I am suffering like the devil ! "

" How little he knows ! " thought
Miss Wendell, with a grave look and an
inward and satisfactory consciousness
that her beliefs enabled her at least to
entertain a higher and more just appre-
ciation in regard to the improbable
statement he had made.

"Yes," replied the doctor. "We'll
see about it." He had a feeling, not
quite uncommon in his profession, that
such suggestions in regard to treatment
were in a measure attacks on his own
prerogative of superior intelligence.
"We shall see," he said, "when we
make the evening round."

" Confound the fellow, and his even-
ing round ! " growled the major under
his mustache. " I wish he had my leg,
or I had him in my regiment."

But happy in the assertion of his pro-
fessional position, Dr. Wendell had re-
joined his sister, the more content be-
cause he felt that she had relieved him
of the trouble of finding the wife of the
officer. Like many people who, intel-
lectually, are active enough, he disliked
physical exertion. At times, indeed, he
mildly reproached himself for the many
burdens he allowed his sister to carry,
and yet failed to see how largely she
was the power which supplemented his
own nature by urging him along with
an energy which often enough distressed
him, and as often hurt his self-esteem.
There are in life many of these partner-
ships : a husband with intellect enough,
owing the driving power to a wife's
sense of duty, or to her social ambitions ;
a brother with character, using, half-
unconsciously. the generous values of a
sister's more critical intelligence. When
one of the partners in these concerns
dies, the world says, " Oh, yes, he is
quite used up by this death. Now he
has lost all his activity. Poor fellow,
he must have felt it very deeply."

II.

Moods are the climates of the mind.
They warm or chill resolves, and are in
turn our flatterers or our cynical sati-
rists. With some people, their moods are
fatal gifts of the east or the west wind ;
while with others, especially with cer-
tain women, and with men who have
feminine temperaments, they come at
the call of a resurgent memory, of a
word that wounds, of a smile at meet-
ing, or at times from causes so trivial
that while we acknowledge their force
we seek in vain for the reasons of their
domination. With Wendell, the moods
to which he was subject made a good

1884.]

In War Time.

deal of the sun and shade of life. He
was without much steady capacity for
resistance, and yielded with a not incu-
rious attention to his humors, — being
either too weak or too indifferent to bat-
tie with their influence, and in fact hav-
ing, like many persons of intelligence,
without vigor of character, a pleasure
in the belief that he possessed in a high
degree individualities, even in the way
of what he knew to be morbid.

One of these overshadowing periods
of depression was brought on by his sis-
ter's mild remonstrance concerning his
want of punctuality, and by the reproof
of his superior, Dr. Lagrauge, or, as he
much preferred to be addressed, Major
Lagrange, such being his titular rank
on the army register.

Miss Wendell had gone, home first,
and Wendell was about to follow her,
when he was recalled by an orderly,
who ran after him to tell him of the sud-
den death of one of his patients. Death
was an incident of hospital life too com-
mon to excite men, in those days of
slaughter ; but it so chanced that, as re-
gards this death, Wendell experienced a
certain amount of discomfort. A young
officer had died abruptly, from sudden
exertion, and Wendell felt vaguely that
his own mood had prevented him from
giving the young man such efficient ad-
vice as might have made him more care-
ful. The thought was not altogether
agreeable.

" I ought never to have been a
doctor," groaned Wendell to himself.
" Everything is against me." Then,
seeing no criticism in the faces of the
nurses, he gave tho usual orders in case
of a death, and, with a last glance at the
moveless features and open eyes of the
dead, left the ward.

There is probably no physician who
cannot recall some moment in his life
when he looked with doubt and trouble
of mind on the face of death ; but for the
most part his is a profession carried on
with uprightness of purpose and habit-

ual watchfulness, so that it is but very
rarely that its practitioners have as just
reason for self-reproach as Wendell had.

Very ill at ease with himself, he
walked towards the station, where, hav-
ing missed his train, he had to wait for
half an hour. Sitting here alone, he
soon reasoned himself into his usual
state of self-satisfied calm. It was after
all a piece of bad fortune, and attended
with no consequences to himself ; one
of many deaths, the every-day incidents
of a raging war and of hospital life.
Very likely it would have happened soon
or late, let him have done as he might.
A less imaginative man would have suf-
fered less ; a man with more conscience
would have suffered longer, and been
the better for it.

At the station in Germantown he lit
his pipe, and, soothed by its quieting in-
fluence, walked homeward to his house
on Main street.

He was rapidly coming to a state of
easier mind, under the effect of the meer-
schaum's subtle influence upon certain
group§ of ganglionic nerve cells deep in
his cerebrum, when, stumbling on the
not very perfect pavements -of the sub-
urban village, he dropped his pipe, and
had a shock of sudden misery as he saw
it by the moonlight in fragments ; a
shock which, as he reflected with amaze-
ment a moment later, seemed to him
— nay, which was — quite as great as
that caused by the death of his patient,
an hour before !

He stood a moment, overcome with
the calamity, and then walked on slow-
ly, with an abrupt sense of disturbing
horror at the feeling that the pipe's
material wholeness was to him, for a
moment, as important as the young of-
ficer's life. The people who live in a
harem of sentiments are very apt to lose
the wholesome sense of relation in life,
so that in their egotism small things be-
come large, and as often large things
small. They are apt, as Wendell was,
to call to their aid and comfort what-

In War Time.

[January,

ever power of casuistry they possess to
support their feelings, and thus by de-
grees habitually weaken their sense of
moral perspective.

It may seem a slight thing to dwell
upon, but for self - indulgent persons
there is nothing valueless in their per-
sonal belongings, and the train of re-
flection brought by this little accident
was altogether characteristic. Thrown
back by this trifle into his mood of
gloom, he reached his own house, and
saw through the open windows his sis-
ter's quiet face bent over her sewing-
machine, which was humming busily.

About two years before this date,
Wendell and his sister had left the little
village on Cape Cod to try their for-
tunes elsewhere. These two were the
last descendants of a long line of severe-
ly religious divines, who had lived and
preached at divers places on the Cape.
But at last one of them — Wendell's fa-
ther — became the teacher of a normal
school, and died in late middle life, leav-
ing a few thousand dollars to represent
the commercial talent of some genera-
tions of Yankees whose acuteness had
been directed chiefly into the thorny
tracks of biblical exegesis. His son, a shy,
intellectual lad, had shown promise at
school, and only when came the practi-
cal work of life exhibited those defects
of character which had been of little
moment so long as a good memory and
mental activity were the sole requisites.
Persistent energy, sufficing to give the
daily supply of power needful for both
the physical and mental claims of any
exacting profession, were lacking. In a
career at school or college it is possible
to " catch up," but in the school of life
there are no examinations at set inter-
vals, and success is usually made up of
the sum of happy uses of multiplied
fractional opportunities. His first fail-
ure was as a teacher, one of the most
self-denying of avocations. Then he
studied medicine, and was so carried
away by the intellectual enthusiasm it

aroused in him that could he have re-
tired into some quiet college nook, as a
student of physiology or pathology, he
would probably have attained a certain
amount of reputation, because in such a
career irregular activity is less injurious.
Want of means, however, or want of
will to endure for a while some neces-
sary privations, inclined him to accept
the every-day life and trials of a prac-
ticing physician in the town where he
was born. The experiment failed. There
was some want in the young man which
interfered with success at home, so that
the outbreak of the war found him ready,
as were many of his class, to welcome
the chances of active service as a doctor
in the field. A rough campaign in West
Virginia resulted very soon in his sudden-
ly quitting the army, and finding his way
to Philadelphia, where his sister joined
him. She readily accepted his excuse
of ill health as a reason for his leaving
the service, and they finally decided to
try their luck anew in the Quaker town.
Miss Wendell brought with her the few
thousand dollars which represented her
father's life-long savings. Yielding to
her better judgment, the doctor found
a home in Germantown, within a few
miles of Philadelphia, as being cheaper
than the city, and in the little, long-
drawn-out town which Pastorius found-
ed they settled themselves, with the
conviction on Ann's part that now, at
last, her brother's talents would find a
fitting sphere, and the appreciation
which ignorant prejudice had denied
him elsewhere. What more the severe,
simple, energetic woman of limited mind
thought of her brother, we may leave
this, their life-tale, to tell.

The house they rented for but a mod-
erate sum was a rather large two-story
building of rough gray micaceous stone,
with a front lit by four windows. Over
the door projected an old-fashioned pent-
house, and before it was what is known
in Pennsylvania as a stoop ; that is, a
large, flat stone step, with a bench on

1884.]

In War Time.

either side. Across the front of the
house an ivy had year by year spread
its leaves, until it hung in masses from
the eaves, and mingled on the hipped
roof with the Virginia creeper and the
trumpet vine, which grew in the gar-
den on one side of the house, and,
climbing to the gable, mottled in October
the darker green with crimson patches.
Behind the house a half acre of garden
was gay with dahlias, sunHowers, and
hollyhocks, with a bit of pasture farther
back, for use, if needed.

The house had been, in the past,
the dwelling of a doctor, who had long
ceased to practice, and to it the iister
and brother had brought the old furni-
ture from a home on Cape Cod, in which
some generations of Puritan divines had
lived, and in which they had concocted
numberless sermons of inconceivable
length. Notwithstanding his sister's
economic warnings, the doctor had added
from time to time, as his admirable taste
directed, many books, a few engravings,
and such other small ornaments as his
intense love of color suggested.

As he now entered the sitting-room,
the general look of the place gave him,
despite his mood, a sense of tranquil
pleasure. The high-backed, claw-toed
chairs, the tall, mahogany clock, with
its chicken-cock on top, seeming to wel-
come him with the same quiet face
which had watched him from childhood,
were pleasant to the troubled man ; and
the fireplace tiles, and the red curtains,
and the bits of Delft ware on the man-
tel were all so agreeable to his sense
of beauty in form and color that he
threw himself into a chair with some
feeling of comfort. His sister left her
work, and, crossing the room, kissed
him. Evidently he was her chief ven-
ture in life ! From long habit of de-
pendent growth the root fibres of his
being were clasped about her, as a tree
holds fast for life and support to some
isolated rock, and neither he nor she
was any more conscious than the tree

or rock of the economic value which
he took out of their relation. On his
part, it was a profound attachment, —
merely an attachment ; on hers a pure
and simple, venerative love. Women
expect much from an idol and get lit-
tle, but believe they get everything ;
and now and then, even as to the best
a woman can set up, she has cankering
doubts.

" Brother," said Miss Wendell, cheer-
fully, " I was thinking, before you came
in, how thankful we should be for all our
life, just now. You are getting some
practice," — then observing his face,
" not all you will have, you know, but
enough, with the hospital, to let us live,
oh, so pleasantly ! " Patting his cheek
tenderly, she added, " And best of all
for me, I feel that you are not worried,
that you are having a chance, at last."

" Yes, yes," he answered, " I know,
I know ! I only hope it will continue."

" Why should it not ? By the time
you cease to be an assistant surgeon —
I mean, when this horrible war is over
— you will have a good hold on prac-
tice, and you will only have to love your
books and microscope and botany a lit-
tle less, and study human beings more."

" I hardly know if they are worth
the studying ! But never mind me. I
am cross to-night."

" Oh, no, that you are not. I won't
have you say that ! You are tired, I
dare say, and troubled about all those
poor fellows in the hospital."

Wendell moved uneasily. She was
sitting on the arm of his chair, and run-
ning her hand caressingly through his
hair, which was brown, and broke into a
wave of half curl around his forehead.

Her consciousness as to much of her
brother's outer range of feelings was al-
most instinctive, although, of course, it
misled her often enough.

" I knew that was it," she said, with
a loving sense of appreciation. " I was
sure it was that. What has happened
at the hospital ? I heard Dr. Lagrange

In War Time.

[January,

call you back. Oh, it was n't about be-
ing late — and such a hot day, too ! "

" No, I was n't bothered about that.
It was about a sudden death, that hap-
pened just before I left. You may re-
member that officer in the far corner of
the ward."

"What, that nice young fellow, a
mere boy ! Oh, Ezra," she added, after
a pause, "I sometimes thank God, in
these war times, that I am not a mother !
Do you think it 's wrong to feel that
way, brother ? "

" Nonsense, Ann ! You might find
enough to annoy yourself about, besides
that. When some one comes for sister
Ann you can begin to think about the
matter. What 's the use of settling
theoretical cases ? There 's quite enough
of real bother in life that one can't es-
cape, and is forced to reason about."

Ann arose, her eyes filling. " Yes,"
she said, " yes — I dare say," her
thoughts for a moment far off, recalling
a time when, years before, she had been
obliged to decide whether she should
give up her life with her brother and
father, and go to the West to share the
love and wealthier surroundings of a
man whose claim upon her was, she felt,
an honest and loving one. Had he too
been poor, and had she been called by
him to bear a life of struggle, it is possi-
ble she might have yielded. As it was,
habitual affection and some vague sense
of her power to fill the wants of her
brother's existence made the woman's
craving for self-sacrifice, as a proof to
herself of the quality of her love, suffi-
cient to decide her, and she had turned
away gently, but decisively, from a life
of ease. Yet sometimes all the lost
loveliness of a mother's duties over-
whelmed her for a dreaming moment.
•" Yes," she said, at last, " you are right.
It's always best to live in the day
that is with us. But what I wanted to
say was that you must not let such in-
evitable things as a death no one could
have prevented overcome you so as to

unsettle you and lessen your usefulness
to others."

" Oh, no, of course not ! " He felt
annoyed : this lad pursued him like a
ghost. " Don't let us talk of it any
more," he said. " I broke my meer-
schaum, coming home."

" Oh, did you ? But I 'm very sorry,
Ezra."

" Yes ; it seemed like the death of
an old friend."

" Don't you think that is a great deal
to say, — an old friend ? "

" Not half enough."

She saw that he was annoyed, and,
knowing well the nature of the mood
which possessed him, returned.

" Ah, well, brother, we will buy an-
other friend to-morrow, and age him as
fast as possible. Bless me, it is ten
o'clock ! " and she began to move about
the room, and to put things in the usual
neat state in which she kept their sit-
ting-room. The books were rearranged,
the bits of thread or paper carefully
picked up, a chair or two pushed back,
a crooked table cover drawn into place.

This was a small but regularly re-
peated torment to Wendell. He did
not dislike a neat parlor, — nay, would
have felt the want of neatness ; but
this little bustle and stir at the calmest
time of the day disturbed him, while he
knew that in this, as in some other mat-
ters, Ann was immovable, so that as a
rule he had ceased to resist, as he usual-
ly did cease to resist where the opposi-
tion was positive and enduring.

This time, however, he exclaimed,
" I do wish, Ann, for once, you would go
to bed quietly ! "

" Why, of course, you dear old boy !
I just want to straighten things up a lit-
tle, and then to read to you a bit."

" I would like that. Read me Brown-
ing's Saul."

" Yes," she returned cheerfully, " that
is always good ; " and so read aloud with
simple and earnest pleasure that exqui-
site poem.

1884.] In War

It soothed the man as tne harp of the
boy shepherd soothed the king.

" What noble verse ! " he said.
"Read again, Ann, that part beginning,
'And the joy of mere living,' and humor
the rhythm a little. I think it is a mis-
take of most readers to affect to follow
the sense so as to make a poem seem in
the reading like prose, as if the rhythm
were not meant to be a kind of musical
accompaniment of exalted thought and
sentiment. How you hear the harp in
it ! I never knew anybody to speak of
the pleasure a poet must have in writ-
ing such verse as that. It must sing to
him as sweetly as to any one else, and
more freshly."

" Yes," said Ann. " I have seen
somewhere that everybody who writes
verse thinks his own delightful."

" No doubt, — as every woman's last
baby is the most charming. But I
should think that neither motherhood
nor paternity of verse could quite make
the critical faculty impossible. Shake-
speare must have been able to appreciate
Hamlet duly."

" I don't know," said Ann.

Her brother often got quite above her
in his talk, and then she either gave up
with a sort of gasp, as the air into which
he rose became too thin for her intel-
lectual lungs, or else she made more or
less successful effort to follow his flights,
or at least to deceive him into the belief
that she did so.

Her brother was fond of Hamlet,
which has been, and ever will be, the fa-
vorite riddle of many thoughtful men.
He liked to read it to her, and to have
it read to him. She had suddenly now
one of those brief inspirations which as-
tonish us at times in unanalytic people.
She said, " I sometimes think Hamlet
was like you, — a little like you, broth-
er !"

Ezra looked up at his sister with
amused surprise. Human nature, he re-
flected to himself, is inexhaustible, and
we may rest sure that on Methuselah's

Time. 11

nine hundred and sixty-ninth birthday
he might have startled his family by
some novelty of word or deed.

" I hardly know if it be a compli-
ment," he said aloud, with a little smile.
" I should like to be sure of what Ham-
let's sister would have said of him. Go
to bed and think about it ! "

After Ann had left him, Wendell him-
self retired to what was known as his
office, a back room with a southern out-
look on the garden. Here were a few
medical books, two or three metaphysical
treatises, a mixture of others on the use
of the microscope and on botany, with
odd volumes of the older and less known
dramatists, and a miscellaneous collec-
tion representing science and sentiment.
On the table was a small microscope,
and a glass dish or two, with minute
water plants, making a nursery for some
of the lesser forms of animal and vege-
table life. Jn a few minutes Wendell,
absorbed, was gazing into the microscope
at the tiny dramas which the domestic
life of a curious pseudopod presented.
He soon began to draw it with much
adroitness. It is possible for some men
to pursue every object, their duties and
their pleasures, with equal energy, nor
is it always true that the Jack-of-all-
trades is master of none ; but it was true
of this man that, however well he did
things, — and he did many things well,
— he did none with sufficient intensity
of purpose, or with such steadiness of
effort as to win high success in any one
of them.

It was nearly twelve o'clock when he
was startled by hearing his sister call,
" Ezra, Ezra ! Do go to bed. You
will oversleep yourself in the morning."

" Yes, yes, I know," he answered,
quite accustomed to her warning care.
" Good-night. I won't sit up any later.
It is all right."

Ann sighed, as she stood barefooted
on the stairs, and had she known Mr.
Pickwick might have shared his inward
conviction.

£ Weir Mitchell.

Chester Streets.

[January,

CHESTER STREETS.

IF it be true, as some poets think,
that every spot on earth is full of poe-
try, then it is certainly also true that
each place has its own distinctive meas-
ure ; an indigenous metre, so to speak,
in which, and in which only, its poetry
will be truly set or sung.

The more one reflects on this, in con-
nection with the spots and places he has
known best in the world, the truer it
seems. Memories and impressions group
themselves in subtle coordinations to
prove it. There are surely woods which
are like stately sonnets, and others of
which the truth would best be told in
tender lyrics ; brooks which are jocund
songs, and mountains which are Odes to
Immortality. Of cities and towns it is
perhaps even truer than of woods and
mountains ; certainly, no less true. For
instance, it would be a bold poet who
should attempt to set pictures of Rome
in any strain less solemn than the epic ;
and is it too strong a thing to say that
only a foolish one would think of fram-
ing a Venice glimpse or memory in any
thing save dreamy songs, with dream-
iest refrains ? Endless vistas of reverie
open to the imagination once entered on
the road of this sort of fancy, — rever-
ies which play strange pranks with both
time and place, endow the dreamer with
a sort of post facto second sight, and
leave him, when suddenly roused, as lost
as if he had been asleep for a century.
For sensations of this kind Chester is a
" hede and chefe cyte." Simply to walk
its streets is to step to time and tune of
ballads ; the very air about one's ears
goes lilting with them ; the walls ring ;
the gates echo ; choruses rollick round
corners, — ballads, always ballads, or, if
not a ballad, a play, none the less live-
ly ; a play with pageants and delightful
racket.

Such are the measure and metre to-

day of " The Cyte of Legyons, that is
Chestre in the marches of Englonde,
towards Wales, betwegne two armes of
the see, that bee named Dee and Mersee.
Thys cyte in tyme of Britons was hede
and chefe cyte of Venedocia, that is
North Wales. Thys cyte in Brytyshe
speech bete Carthleon, Chestre in Eng-
lyshe, and Cyte of Legyons also. For
there laye a wynter, the legyons that
Julius Cassar sent to wyne Irlonde. And
after, Claudius Caesar sent legyons out
of the cyte for to wynn the Islands that
bee called Orcades. Thys cyte hath
plenty of cyne land, of corn, of flesh,
and specyally of samon. Thys cyte re-
ceyveth grate marchandyse and sendeth
out also. Northumbres destroyed this
cyte but Elfleda Lady of Mercia bylded
it again and made it mouch more."

This is what was written of Ches-
ter, more than six hundred years ago,
by one Ranulph Higden, a Chester Ab-
bey monk, — him who wrote those old
miracle plays, except for which we very
like had never had such a thing as a
play at all, and William Shakespeare
had turned out no better than many an-
other Stratford man.

All good Americans who reach Eng-
land go to Chester. They go to see
the cathedral, and to buy old Queen
Anne furniture. The cathedral is very
good in its way, the way of all cathe-
drals, and the old Queen Anne furniture
is now quite well made ; but it is a mar-
vel that either cathedral or shop can
long hold a person away from Chester
streets. One cannot go amiss in them ;
at each step he is, as it were, button-
holed by a gable, an arch, a pavement,
a doorsill, a sign, or a gate with a story
to tell. A story, indeed ? A hundred,
or more : and if anybody doubts them,
or has by reason of old age, or over-oc-
cupation with other matters, got them

1884.]

Chester Streets.

confused in his mind, all 1>£ has to do
is to step into a public } " ?ry, which
is kept in a very private tuiy", in a by-
street, by two aged Cestrian citizens
and a parish boy. Here, if he can con-
vince these venerable Cestrian s of his re-
spectability, he may go a-junketing by
himself in that delicious feast of an old
book, the Vale-Royale of England, pub-
lished in London in 1656, and written,
I believe, a half century or so earlier.

Never was any bit of country more
praised than this beautiful Chester
County, " pleasant and abounding in
plenteousness of all things needful and
necessary for man's use, insomuch that
it merited and had the name of the
Vale-Royale of England."

" The ayr is very wholesome, inso-
much that the people of the Country
are seldome infected with Diseases or
Sicknesses ; neither do they use the help
of the Physicians nothing so much as in
other countries. For when any of them
are sick they make him a Posset and
tye a kerchief on his head, and if that
will not amend him, then God be mer-
ciful to him ! " says the old writer. And
of the river Dee, —

" To which water no man can express
how much this ancient city hath been be-
holden ; nay, I suppose if I should call it
the Mother, the Nurse, the Maintainer,
the Advancer and Preserver thereof, I
should not greatly erre." And again, of
the shifting " sands o' Dee," this ancient
and devout man, taking quite another
view than that of the thoughtless or
pensive lyrists, later, says, —

" The changing and shifting of the
water gave some occasion to the Britons
in that Infancy of the Christian Relig-
ion to attribute some divine honor and
estimation to the said water : though I
cannot believe that to be any cause of
the name of it."

His pious deduction from the exceed-
ing beauty of the situation of the city
is that it is " worthy, according to the
Eye, to be called a city guarded with

Watch of Holy and Religious men, and
through the Mercy of our Saviour al-
ways fenced and fortified with the mer-
ciful assistance of the Almighty." To
keep it thus guarded, the monks of
Vale-Royale did their best. Witness
the terms in which their grant was
couched : —

" All the mannours, churches, lands
and tenements aforesaid, in free pure
and perpetual alms forever ; with Hom-
ages, Rents, Demesnes, Villenages, Ser-
vices of Free Holders and Bond, with
Villains and their Families, Advow-
sons, Wards, Reliefs, Escheates, Woods,
Plains, Meadows, Pastures, Wayes,
Pathes, Heaths, Turfs, Forests, Waters,
Ponds, Parks, Fishing, Mills in Granges,
Cottages within Borough and without,
and in all other places with all Eas-
ments, Liberties, Franchises and Free
Customs any way belonging to the afore-
said Mannours, Churches, lands and
tenements."

Plainly, if the devil or any of his fol-
lowers were caught in the Vale-Royale,
they could be legally ejected as trespas-
sers.

He was not, however, without an eye
to worldly state, this devout writer, for
he speaks with evident pride of the fine
show kept up by the mayor of Ches-
ter : —

" The Estate that the Mayor of Ches-
ter keepeth is great. For he hath both
Sword Bearer and Mace Bearer Ser-
geants, with their silver maces, in as
good and decent order as in any other
city in England. His housekeeping ac-
cordingly ; but not so chargeable as in
all other cities, because all thing are bet-
ter cheap there. . . . He remaineth,
most part of the day at a place called
the Pendice which is a brave place
builded for the purpose at the high
Crosse under St. Peters Church, and in
the middest of the city, of such a sort
that a man may stand therein and see
into the markets or four principal streets
of the city."

Chester Streets.

[January,

Nevertheless, there was once a mayor
of Chester who did not see all he ought
to have seen in the principal streets of
the city : for his own daughter, out play-
ing ball " with other maids, in the sum-
mer time, in Pepur Street," stole away
from her companions, and ran off with
her sweetheart, through one of the city
gates, at the foot of that street, which
gate the enraged mayor ordered closed
up forever, as if that would do any
good ; and some sharp-tongued and sen-
sible Cestriau immediately phrased the
illogical action in a proverb : " When
the daughter is stolen, shut the Pepur
gate." This saying is to be heard in
Chester to this day, and is no doubt
lineal ancestor of our own broader apo-
thegm, " When the mare 's stolen, lock
the stable."

There are many lively stories about
mayors of Chester. There was a mayor
in 1617 who made a very learned speech
to King James, when he rode in through
East Gate, with all the train soldiers of
the city standing in order, " each com-
pany with their ensigns in seemly sort,"
the array stretching up both sides of
East Gate Street. This mayor's name
was Charles Fitton. He delivered his
speech to the king ; presented to him a
" standing cup with a cover double gilt,
and therein a hundred jacobins of gold ; "
likewise delivered to him the city's
sword, and afterward bore it before him,
in the procession. But when King James
proposed, in return for all these civilities,
to make a knight of him, Charles Fitton
sturdily refused ; which was a thing so
strange for its day and generation that
one is instantly possessed by a fire of
curiosity to know what Charles Fitton's
reasons could have been for such con-
tempt of a knight's title. No doubt
there is a story hanging thereby, —
something to do with a lady-love, not
unlikely ; and a fine ballad it would
make, if one but knew it. The records,
however, state only the bare fact.

Then there was, a hundred years later

than this, a^nan who got to be mayor of
Chester by, very strange chance. He
was a ribbon weaver, in a small way,
kept a shop in Shoemaker's Row, and
lived in a little house backing on the
Falcon Inn. All of a sudden he blos-
somed out into a rich silk mercer ;
bought a fine estate just outside the
city, built a grand house, and generally
assumed the airs and manners of a dig-
nitary. As is the way of the world now,
so then : people soon took him at his
surface showing, forgot all about the
mystery of his sudden wealth, and pres-
ently made him mayor of Chester. Af-
terward it came out, though never in
such fashion that anything was done
about it, how the mayor got his money.
Just before the mysterious rise in his
fortunes, a great London banking house
had been robbed of a large sum of money
by one of its clerks, who ran away,
came to Chester, and went into hiding
at the Falcon Inn. He was tracked and
overtaken late one night. Hearing his
pursuers on the stairs, he sprang from
his bed and threw the treasure bags
out of the window, plump into the rib-
bon weaver's back yard; where the dis-
appointed constables naturally never
thought of looking, and went back to
London much chagrined, carrying only
the man, and no money. None of the
money having been found on the robber,
he escaped conviction, but subsequently,
for another offense, was tried, convicted,
and executed. I take it for granted that
it must have been he who told in his
last hours what he did with the money
bags : for certainly no one else knew ;
that is, no one else except Mr. Samuel
Jarvis, the ribbon weaver, who, much
astonished, had picked them up before
daylight, the morning after they had
been thrown into his back yard. It is
certain that he kept his mouth shut,
and proceeded to turn the money to the
best possible account in the shortest pos-
sible time. But an evil fate seemed to
attach to the dishonestly gotten riches ;

1884.]

Chesttr Streets.

Jarvis dying without issue, his estate all
went to a man named Doe, " a gardener,
at Greg's Pit," whose sons and grand-
sons spent the last penny of it in riot-
ous living. So there is now " nothing
to show for " that money, for the steal-
ing of which one man was tried for his
life, and another man made mayor of
Chester ; which would all come in cap-
itally in a ballad, if a ballad-monger
chose.

Of the famous Chester Rows, nobody
has ever yet contrived to give a descrip-
tion intelligible to one who had not
seen them. The more familiarly they
are known, the more fantastic and be-
wildering they seem, and the less one is
sure how to speak of them. Whether
it is that the sidewalk goes up-stairs, or
the front second-story bed-room comes
down into the street ; whether the street
itself be in the basement or the cellar,
or the sidewalk be on the roofs of the
houses ; where any one of them all
begins or leaves off, it would be a cour-
ageous narrator that tried to explain.
They appear to have been as much of a
puzzle two hundred years ago as to-day ;
for the devout old chronicler of the Vale-
Royale, essaying to describe them, wrote
the following paragraph, which, delicious
as it is to those who know Chester, I
think must be a stumbliug-block and
foolishness to those who do not. He
says there is " a singular property of
praise to this city, whereof I know not
the like of any other : there be towards
the street fair rooms, both for shops and
dwelling-houses, to which there is rather
a descent than an equal height with the
floor or pavement of the street. Yet
the principal dwelling-houses and shops
for the chiefest Trades are mounted a
story higher, and before the Doors and
Entries a continued Row, on either side
the street, for people to pass to and
fro all along the said houses, out of all
annoyance of Rain, or other foul weath-
er, with stairs fairly built, and neatly
maintained to step down out of those

Rowes into the open streets : almost at
every second house : and the said Rowes
built over the head with such of the
Chambers and Rooms for the most part
as are the best rooms in every one of
the said houses.

" It approves itself to be of most ex-
cellent use, both for dry and easy pas-
sage of all sorts of people upon their
necessary occasions, as also for the send-
ing away, of all or the most Passengers
on foot from the passage of the street,
amongst laden and empty Carts, load-
en and travelling Horses, lumbering
Coaches, Beer Carts, Beasts, Sheep,
Swine, and all annoyances, which what
a confused trouble it makes in other
cities, especially where great stirring is,
there 's none that can be ignorant."

He also suggests another advantage
of this arrangement, which seems by no
means unlikely to have been part of its
original reason for being, namely, that
" when the enemy entered they might
avoid the danger of the Horsemen, and
might annoy the Enemies as they passed
through the Streets." Probably in this
writer's day the marvel of the construc-
tion of the Rows was even greater than
it is now ; in many instances the first
story was excavated out of solid rock,
so you began by going down-stairs at the
outset. These first stories of the an-
cient Cestrians are beneath the cellars
of the Rows to-day ; and every now and
then, in deepening a vault or cellar-
way, workmen come on old Roman al-
tars, built there by the " Legyous " of
Julius or Claudius Caesar, dedicated to
" Nymphs and Fountains," or other ge-
m'i of the day ; baths, too, with their pil-
lars and perforated tiles still in place, as
they were in the days when cleanly and
luxurious Roman soldiers took Turkish
baths there, after hot victories. Know-
ing about these lower strata adds a weird
charm to the fascination of strolling
along in the balconies above, looking in,
now at a jeweler's window, now at a
smart haberdashery shop, now at some

Chester Streets.

[January,

neat housekeeper's bedroom window,
now into a mysterious chink-like pas-
sage-way winding off into the heart of
the building ; and then, perhaps, pres-
to! descending a staircase, a few feet,
to another tier of similar shop windows,
domiciles, garret alleys, and dormer-win-
dow bazars ; and the next thing, plump
down again, ten feet or so more, into
the very street itself. Indeed are they,
as the Vale-Royale says, " a singular
property of praise to this city, whereof
I know not the like of any other."

One manifest use and enjoyment fof
this medley of in and out, up and down,
above and below, balconies, basements,
attics, dormer windows, gables, and case-
ments, the old chronicler failed to men-
tion, but there can never have been a
day or a generation which has not dis-
covered it, and that is the convenient
overlooking of all that goes on in the
street below. What rare and comfort-
able nooks for the spying on processions,
and all manner of shows and spectacles !
To sit snug in one's best chamber, ten
feet above the street, ten feet out into it,
with windows looking up and down the
highway, — what vantage it must have
been in the days when the Miracle Plays
went wheeling along from street to
street, played on double scaffolded carts ;
the players attiring themselves on the
lower scaffold, while the play was pro-
gressing on the upper ! They began to
do this in Chester in the year of our
Lord 1268. There were generally in
use at one time, twenty-four of the
wheeled stages : as soon as one play
was over, its stage was wheeled along to
the next street, and another took its
place. The plays were called Mysteries,
and were devised for the giving of in-
struction in the Old and New Testament,
which had been so long sealed books to
the people. Luther gave them his sanc-
tion, saying, " Such spectacles often do
more good and produce more impression
than sermons."

The old chronicles are full of quaint

and interesting entries in regard to

these plays. The different trades and

guilds of the city represented different

acts in the holy dramas : —

The Barkers and Tanners, The Fall

of Lucifer.

Drapers and Hosiers, The Creation of

the World.

Drawers of Dee and Water Leaders,

Noe and his Shippe.

Barbers, Wax Chandlers, and Leeches,

Abraham and Isaac.

Cappers, Wire Drawers, and Pinners,

Balak and Balaam with Moses.

Wrights, Slaters, Tylers, Daubers, and

Thatchers, The Nativity.

In 1574 these plays were played for
the last time. There had been several
attempts before to suppress them. One
Chester mayor, Henry Hardware by
name, being a " godly and zealous man,
caused the gyauntes in the midsomer
show to be broken up, not to go ; and
the devil in his feathers he put awaye,
and the caps, and the canes, and dragon
and the naked boys."

But it was reserved for another may-
or, Sir John Savage, Knight, to have
the honor of finally putting an end to
the pageants. " Sir John Savage, knight,
being Mayor of Chester, which was the
laste time they were played, and we
praise God, and praye that we see not
the like profanation of holy Scriptures,
but O, the mercie of God for the time
of our ignorance ! " says an old history,
written in 1595.

At intervals between these pious sup-
pressions, carnal and pleasure - loving
persons made great efforts to restore the
plays ; and there are some very curious
accounts of expenditures made in Ches-
ter, under mayors less godly than Hard-
ware and Savage, for the rehabilitation
of some of the old properties of the
sacred pageants : " For finding all the
materials with the workmanship of the
four great giants, all to be made new,
as neere as may be, lyke as they were
before, at five pounds a giant, the least

1884.]

Chester Streets.

that can be, and four men to carry them
at two shillings and sixpence each."

These redoubtable giants, which could
not be made at less than five pounds
apiece, were constructed out of " hoops,
deal boards, nails, pasteboards, scale-
board, paper of various sorts, buckram
size cloth, old sheets for their bodies,
sleeves and shirts, tinsille, tinfoil, gold
and silver leaf, colors of different kinds,
and glue in, abundance." Last, not
least, came the item, " For arsknick to
put into the paste to save the giants
from being eaten by the rats, one shil-
ling and fourpeuce."

It is at first laughable to think of a
set of city fathers summing up such ac-
counts as these for a paper baby show,
but upon second thought the question
occurs whether city funds are any better
administered in these days. ' The paper
giants, feathered devils, and dragons
were cheaper than champagne suppers
and stationery nowadays in •' hede and
chefe " cities.

When the Mystery Plays were finally
forbidden, it seemed dull times for a
while in Chester ; but at last the people
contrived an ingenious resuscitation of
the old amusements under new names,
and with new themes, to which nobody
could object. They dramatized old sto-
ries, legends, histories of kings, and the
like. The story of ^Eneas and Queen
Dido was one of the first played. No
doubt all the " gyauntes " and hobble-
de-horses which had not been eaten up
by rats and moths came in as effective-
ly in the second dispensation as in the
first. The only one of the later plays
of which an account has been preserved
was played in 1608, in honor of the old-
est son of James L, by the sheriff of
Chester, who himself wrote a flaming
account of it.

He says, " Zeal produced it, love de-
vized it, boyes performed it, men be-
held it, and none but fools dispraised
it. ... The chiefest part of this peo-
ple-pleasing spectacle consisted in three

VOL. LIU. — NO. 315. 2

Bees, that is, Boyes, Beastes, and Bels."
Allegory, mythology, music, fireworks,
and ground and lofty tumbling were
jumbled together in a fine way, in the
sheriff's show. Envy was on horseback
with a wreath of snakes around her
head ; Plenty, Peace, Fame, and Joy
were personated ; Mercury came down
from heaven with wings, in a cloud ; a
" wheele of fire burning very cunning-
ly, with other fireworks, mounted the
Crosse by the assistance of ropes, in the
midst of heavenly melody ; " and, to top
off with, a grotesque figure climbed up
to the top of the Crosse, and stood on
his head, with his feet in the air, " very
dangerously and wonderfully to the
view of the beholders, and casting fire-
works very delightfull."

Truly, the sheriff's language seems
hardly too strong, when he says that
none but fools dispraised his spectacle.

These secular shows never attained
the popularity of the old Mystery Plays.
That mysterious halo of attraction which
always invests the forbidden undoubt-
edly heightened the reputed charm of
the never-more-to-be-seen sacred pag-
eants, and led people to continually
depreciate the value of all entertain-
ments offered as substitutes for them.
Probably in the midst of the heavenly
melodies and " fireworks very delight-
full," at the sheriff's grand show, old
men went about shaking their heads re-
gretfully, and saying, " Ah, but you
should have seen the gyaunts we used
to have forty years ago, and the way
they played the Fall of Lucifer in 1574 ;
there 's never been anything like it
since ; " and immediately all the young
people who had never seen a Miracle
Play began to be full of dissatisfied won-
der as to what they were like.

But what the shows and pageants
lacked in the early days of the seven-
teenth century, grand processions went
a long way towards making up. It is
evident that Chester people never missed
au occasion for turning out in fine array,

Chester Streets.

[January,

and there being always somebody who
took the trouble to write a full account
of the parade, we of to-day know almost
as much about it as if we had been on
the spot. The old chronicles in the Ches-
ter public library are running over with
quaint and gay stories of such doings
as the following : " Came to Chester, be-
ing Saturday, the Duchess of Tremoyle,
from France, mother-in-law to the Lord
Strange : and all the Gentry of Cheshier,
Flintshier. and Denbighshier went to
meet her at Hoole's Heath, with the
Earl of Derby ; being at least six hun-
dred horse. All the Gentle Men of the
artelery yard lately erected in Chester,
met her in Cow Lane, in very stately
manner, all with greate white and blew
fethers, and went before her chariot, in
march, to the Bishop's Pallas, and mak-
ing a yard, let her thro the middest, and
then gave her three volleys of shot, and
so returned to their yard. ... So many
knights, esquires, and Gentle Men never
were in Chester, no, not to meet King
James when he went to Chester."

This Cow Lane is now called Frod-
sham Street ; and on one of its corners
is the building in which William Penn,
in his day, preached more than once,
setting forth doctrines which the Duch-
ess of Tremoyle would have much dis-
relished in her day, as would also the
artelery Gentle Men with their greate
white and blew fethers. King James
himself is said to have once dropped in
at this Quaker meeting-house, when
Penu was preaching, and to have sat,
attentive, through the entire discourse.

And so we come down through the
centuries, from the pasteboard gyaunt
and glued dragon, winged Mercury with
lire-wheel, Duchess of Tremoyle with
her plumed horsemen, to the grim but
gentle Quaker, holding feathers perni-
cious, plays deadly, and permitting to
the people nothing but plain yea and
nay. Of all this, and worlds more like
it, and gayer and wilder, — sadder, too,
— is the Chester air so brimful that, as

I said in the beginning, it seems perpet-
ually to go lilting about one's ears.

Leaving the library, with its quaint
and fascinating old records, and turn-
ing aside at intervals from the more an-
cient landmarks of the streets to observe
the ways and conditions of the Cestri-
ans now, the traveler is no less repaid.
Every rod of the sidewalk is a study for
its present as well as for its past. The
venders are a guild by themselves, as
much to-day as they were in the six-
teenth century. They build up their
stuffs, their old chairs, chests, brooms,
crockery, and tinware, in stacks of con-
fusion, in shelf-like balconies, on beams
hanging overhead and in corners and
nooks underfoot, all along the most Sm-
cient of the Rows. It is a piece of good
luck to walk past half a dozen doors
there without jostling something on the
right or left, and bringing down a clat-
tering pile on one's heels. From shad-
owy recesses, men and women eager for
trade dart out, eying the stranger sharp-
ly. They are connoisseurs in customers,
if in nothing else, the Cestrian dealers
of to-day. They know at a glance who
will give tan shillings and sixpence for
a cream jug without any nose and with
a big crack in one side, on the bare
chance of its being old Welsh. There
is much excuse for their spreading out
their goods over the highway, as they do,
for the shops themselves are closets, —
six by eight, eight by ten ; ten by twelve
is a spacious mart, in comparison with
the average. Deprived of the outside
nooks between the pillars of the arcade,
the dealers would be sorely put to.it for
room. It is becoming, however, a dis-
puted question, whether the renting of
these shops includes any right to the
covered ways in front of them ; and
there is great anxiety among the inhab-
itants of the more dilapidated portions
of the Rows in consequence.

"There 's a deespute with the corpo-
ration, mem, as to whether we hown the
stalls or not," said an energetic furni-

1884.]

Chester Streets.

ture-wife (if fish-wife, why not furniture-
wife ?) to me one day, as I was laugh-
ingly steering a cautious passage among
her shaky pyramids of fourth or twen-
tieth hand furniture. " It 's lasted a
while now, an' they 've not forced us to
give 'em hup as yet ; but I 'm afeard
they may bring it about," she added,
with the dogged humility of her class.
"They Ve everything their own way,
the corporation."

It is worth while to take a turn down
some of the crevice-like alleys in these
Rows, and see where the people live ;
see also where the nobility gets part of
its wherewithal to eat, drink, and be
clothed.

Often there is to be seen at the far
end of these crevices a point of sunlight ;
like the gleaming point of" light seen
ahead, in going througli a rayless tun-
nel. This betokens a tiny court-yard in
the rear. These court-yards are always
well worth seeing. They are paved,
sometimes with tiles evidently hundreds
of years old. The different properties of
the dozens of families living in tenements
opening on the court are arranged around
its sides, apparently each family keeping
scrupulously to its own little hand's-
breadth of room ; frequently a tiny flow-
er-bed, or a single plant in a pot, gives a
gleam of cheer to the place. In such a
court-yard as this, I found, one morning,
a yellow-haired, blue-eyed little maid,
scrubbing away for dear life, with a
broom and soap-suds, on the old tiles.
She was not over nine years old ; her
bare legs and feet were pink and chub-
by, and she had a smile like a sunbeam.

" I saw the sun shining in here so
brightly, that I walked up the alley to
see how it got in," I said to her.

" Yes, mem," she said, with a courte-
sy. " It do shine in here beautiful,"
and she looked up at the sky, smiling.

" Have you lived here long? " I asked.

" About nine months, mem. I 'm
only in service, mem," she continued
with a deprecating courtesy, modestly

anxious to disclaim the honor of having
any proprietary right in the place.

" We 've five rooms, mem," she went
on. " It 's a very nice lodging, if you 'd
like to see it ; " and she threw open a
door into an infinitesimal parlor, out of
which opened a still smaller dining-room,
lighted only by a window in the parlor
door. There were two bedrooms above,
reached by a nearly upright stairway,
not over two feet wide. The fifth room
was a " beautiful washroom," which the
little maiden exhibited with even more
pride than she had shown the parlor.
" It 's three families has it together,
mem," she explained. " It 's a great
thing to get a washroom. And we 've a
coal-hole, too, mem," she said eagerly ;
" you passed it, coming up," and she
stepped a few paces down the alley and
threw open a door into a rayless place,
possibly five by seven feet in size. " It
used to be a bedroom, mem, to the op-
posite house ; but it 's empty now, so we
gets it for coal." I could not take my
eyes from the child's face, as she prat-
tled and pattered along. She looked
like an angel. Her face shone with
loyalty, pride, and happiness. I envied
the poverty-stricken dwellers in this
court their barefooted handmaiden, and
would have taken her then and there, if
I could, into my own service for her
lifetime. As we stood talking, another
door opened, and a grizzled old head
popped out.

" Good-morning, mem," said the child,
cheerily, making the same respectful
courtesy she had made to me. " I 'm
just showin' the lady what nice lodgin's
we 've 'ere in the court."

" Humph," said the old woman gruff-
ly, as she tottered out, leaving her door
wide open, " they 're nothin' to boast
of."

Her own lodging certainly was not.
It was literally little more than a cham-
ber in the wall : it had no window, ex-
cept one small square pane above the
door. You could hardly stand upright

Chester Streets.

[January,

in it, and not much more than turn
around. The walls were hung full :
household utensils, clothes, even her two
or three books, were hung up by strings ;
there being only room for one tiny table,
besides the stove. In one corner stood
a step-ladder, which led up through a
hole in the ceiling to the cranny over-
head in which she slept. This was all
the old woman had. She lived here
alone, and she paid to the Duke of West-
minster two shillings and sixpence a
week for the rent of the place. " It 's
dear at the rent," she said ; " but it 's a
respectable place, an' I think a deal o'
that," and she sighed.

The name of the Duke of Westmin-
ster and the value of that two and six-
pence to his grace meant more to me
that morning than it would have done
twenty-four hours earlier ; for on the
previous afternoon we had visited his
palace, the famous Eaton Hall. ' We
had walked there for weary hours over
marble floors, under frescoed domes,
through long lines of statues, of pic-
tures, of stained -glass windows, hang-
ings, carvings, and rare relics and tro-
phies innumerable. We had seen the
duchess's window balcony, one waving
mass of yellow musk. " Her ladyship
is very fond of musk. It is always to
be kept flowering at her window," we
were told.

We had walked also through a glass
corridor three hundred and seventy-five
yards long, draped with white clematis
and heliotrope on one side, and on the
other banked high with geraniums, car-
nations, and all manner of flowers.
Opening at intervals in these banks of
flowers were doors into other conserva-
tories : one was filled chiefly with rare
orchids, like an enchanted aviary of
humming-birds, arrested on the wing ;
gold and white, purple and white, brown
and gold, green, snowy white, orange ;
some of them as large as a fleur-de-lis.
Another house was filled with ferns and
palms, green, luxuriant, like a bit of

tropical forest brought across seas for
his grace's pleasure. The most superb
sight of all was the lotus house. Cleo-
patra herself might have flushed with
pleasure at beholding it. A deep tank,
sixty feet long, and twenty wide, filled
with white and blue and pink blossoms,
floating, swaying, lolling on the dark
water ; seemingly to uphold the glass
roof canopying this lotus-decked sea,
rose slender columns, wreathed with
thunbergia vines in full bloom, yellow,
orange, and white ; the glass walls of
the building were set thick and high
with maiden-hair and other rare ferns,
interspersed at irregular intervals with
solid masses of purple or white flowers.
The spell of the place, of its warm, lan-
guid air, was beyond words : it was be-
wildering.

All this being vivid in my mind, I
started at hearing his grace's name from
the old woman's lips.

" So these houses belong to the
Duke of Westminster, do they ? " I re-
plied.

"Yes, ee 's the 'ole o' 't," she an-
swered ; " an' a power o' money it brings
'im in, considerin' its size. 'Ee 's big
rents in this town. Mebbe ye 've bin
out t' 'is 'all ? It 's a gran' sight, I 'm
told. I 've never seen it."

I was minded then to tell about the
duke's flowers. It would have been
only a bit of a fairy story to the little
maid, a bright spot in her still bright
horizons ; but I forbore, for the sake of
the old woman's soul, already enough
wrung and embittered by the long strain
of her hard lot, and its contrast with
that of her betters, without having that
contrast enforced by a vivid picture of
the duke's hot-houses. My own mem-
ory of them was darkened forever, —
unreasonably so, perhaps ; but the antith-
esis came too suddenly and soon for me
ever to separate the pictures.

The archaeologist in Chester will fre-
quently be lured from its streets to its
still more famous walls. This side Rome

1884.]

Chester Streets.

there is no such piece of Roman mason-
ry work, to be seen. Here, indeed, is
the air full of ballad measures, to which
one must step, if he go his way think-
ing at all. The four great gates, north,
south, east, and west, — three kept by
earls, and only one owned by the cit-
izens ; the lesser posterns, with com-
moner names, born of their different
sorts of traffic, or the fords to which
they led ; the towers and turrets, fought
over, lost and won, and won and lost,
trod by centuries of brave fighters whose
names live forever ; bridgeways and
arches in their own successions, of as
noble lineage as any lineages of men", —
of such are the walls of Chester. They
surround the old city : are nearly two
miles in length, and were originally of
the width prescribed in the ancient Ro-
man manual of Vitruvius, " that two
armed men may pass each other without
impediment." There are many places
now, however, which would by no means
come up to that standard ; nature having
usurped much space with her various
growths, and time having been chip-
ping away at them as well. In fact,
on some portions of the wall, there is
only a narrow grassy footpath, such as
might wind around in a village church-

<J O

yard. To come up by hoary stone stairs,
out of the bustling street, atop of the
wall, and out on such a bit of footpath
as this, with an outlook over the Rood
Eye meadow and off toward the region
of the old Welsh castles, is a fine early-
morning treat in Chester. Some of the
towers are now sunk to the ignoble uses

of heterogeneous museums. Old wo-
men have the keys, and for a fee admit
curious people to the ancient chambers
and keeps, where, after having the sat-
isfaction of standing where kings have
stood, and looking off over fields where
kings' battles were fought, they can ira/e
at glass cases full of curiosities and rel-
ics of one sort and another, sometimes
of an incredible worthlessness. In the
tower known as King Charles's Tower,

from the fact of Charles the First hav-
ing stood there, on the 27th of Septem-
ber, 1645, overlooking the to him luck-
less battle of Rowton Moor, is the most
miscellaneous collection of odds and
ends ever offered to public gaze. A
very old woman keeps the key of this
tower, and is herself by no means the
least of the curiosities in it. She was
born in Chester, and recollects well
when all the space outside the old walls,
which is now occupied by the modern
city, was chiefly woods ; she used to go,
in her childhood, to play and to gather
flowers in them. The fact that King
Charles once looked through the window
of this turret has grown, by a sort of
geometrical ratio relative to the number
of years she has been reiterating the
statement, into a colossally dispropor-
tionate place in her mind.

"The king, mem, stood just where
you 're standin' now," she says over and
over and over, in a mechanical manner,
as long as you remain in the tower. I
wondered if she said it all night, in her
sleep ; and if, if one were to spend a
whole day in the tower, she would never
stop saying it. Shew. is an enthusiastic
show-woman of her little store ; undis-
mayed by any amount of indifference
on the part of her listeners. " Ere 's a
face you know mem, I dare say," pro-
ducing from one corner of the glass case
a cheap newspaper picture, much soiled,
of General Grant. " 'Ee was in this
tower, last summer, and 'ee was much
hinterested."

Next to General Grant's portrait
came " a ring snake from Kentucky."
" It 's my brother, mem, brought that
over : twenty years ago, ee was in
Hamerica. You must undustand thu
puttin' of 'em hup better than we do,
mem, for ere 's these salamanders was
only put hup two years ago, an' they 've
quite gone a' ready, in that time."

She had a statuette of King Charles,
Cromwell's chaplain's broth bowl, a bit
of a bed-quilt of Queen Anne's, a black

Chester Streets.

[January,

snake from Australia, a fine-tooth comb
from Africa, a tattered fifty-cent piece
of American paper currency, and a
string of shell money from the South
Sea Islands, all arranged in close prox-
imity. Taking up 'the bit of American
currency, she held it out toward us, say-
ing, inquiringly, " Hextinct now, mem,
I believe ? " I think she can hardly
have recovered even yet from the be-
wilderment into which she was thrown
by our convulsive laughter and ejacu-
lated reply, " Oh, no. Would that it
were ! "

In a clear day can be seen from this
tower, a dozen or so miles to the south,
the ruins of a castle built by Earl Han-
del Blundeville. He was the Earl Ran-
del of whom Roger Lacy, constable of
Cheshire in 1204, made a famous res-
cue, once on a time. The earl, it seems,
was in a desperate strait, besieged in
one of his castles by the Welsh ; per-
haps in this very castle. Roger Lacy,
hearing of the earl's situation, forthwith
made a muster of all the tramps, beg-
gars, and rapscallions he could find : " a
tumultuous rout," says the chronicle,
" of loose, disorderly, and dissolute per-
sons, players, minstrels, shoemakers and
the like, and marched speedily towards
the enemy." The Welsh, seeing so
great a multitude coming, raised their
siege and fled ; and the earl, thus deliv-
ered, showed his gratitude to Consta-
ble Roger by conferring upon him per-
petual authority over the loose, idle
persons in Cheshire ; making the office
hereditary in the Lacy family. A
thankless dignity, one would suppose,
at best ; by no means a sinecure, at any
time, and during the season of the Mid-
summer Fairs a terrible responsibility :
it being the 'law of the land that during
those fairs the city of Chester was for
the space of one month a free city of
refuge for all criminals, of whatsoever
degree ; in token of which a glove was
hung out at St. Peter's Church, on the
first day of the fairs.

There is another good tale of Roger
Lacy's prowess. He seems to have
been a roving fighter, for he once held
a castle in Normandy, for King John,
against the French, " with such gallantry
that after all his victuals were spent,
having been besieged almost a year, and
many assaults of the enemy made, but
still repulsed by him, he mounts his
horse, and issues out of the castle with
his troop into the middestof his enemies,
chusing rather to die like a soldier,
than to starve to death. He slew many
of the enemy, but was at last with much
difficulty taken prisoner ; so he and his
soldiers were brought prisoners to the
King of France, where, by the com-
mand of the king, Roger Lacy was to
be held no strict prisoner, for his great
honesty and trust in keeping the Castle
so gallantly. . . . King John's letter
to Roger Lacy concerning the keeping
of the said castle, you may see among
the Norman writings put out by Andrew
du Chesne, and printed at Paris in
1619." Of all of which, if no ballad
have ever been written, it is certain that
songs must have been sung by min-
strels at the time ; and the name of the
brave Roger's lady-love was well suited
to minstrelsy, she being one Maud de
Clare. Plain Roger Lacy and Maud
de Clare ! The dullest fancy takes a
leap at the sound of the two names.

In the same old chronicle which gives
these and many other narratives of
Roger Lacy is the history of a singular,
half-witted being, who was known in
Vale-Royale, in the fifteenth century, as
Nixon the Prophet. How much that
the old records claim for him, in the
way of minute and minutely fulfilled
prophecies, is to be set down to the score
of ignorant superstition, it is hard now
to say ; but there must have been some
foundation in fact for the narrative.
Robert Nixon was the son of a farmer
in Cheshire County, and was born in
the year 1467. His stupidity and igno-
rance were said to be " invincible." No

1884.]

efforts could make him understand any-
thing save the care of cattle, and even
in this he showed at times a brutish
and idiotic cruelty. He had a very rough,
coarse voice, but said little, sometimes
passing whole months without opening
his lips to speak. He began very early
to foretell events, and with an apparent-
ly preternatural accuracy. When he
was a lad, he was seen, one day, to abuse
an ox belonging to his brother. To a
person threatening to inform his brother
of this act, Robert replied that three
days later his brother would not own
the ox. Sure enough, on the next day a
life inheritance came into the estate on
which his brother was a tenant, and that
very ox was taken for the " heriot
bond to the new owner." One of the
abbey monks having displeased him, he
exclaimed, —

" When you the harrow come on high,
Soon a raven's nest will be."

The couplet was thought at the time to
be simple nonsense : but as it turned out,
the last abbot of that monastery was
named Harrow ; and when the king sup-
pressed the monastery he gave the do-
main to Sir Thomas Holcroft, whose
crest was a raven.

It was also one of Nixon's predictions
that the two abbeys of Vale-Royale and
Norton should meet on Orton bridge
and the thorn growing in the abbey
yard should be its door.

When the abbeys were pulled down,
in the time of the Reformation, stones
taken from each of them were used in
rebuilding that bridge ; and the thorn-
tree was cut down, and placed as a bar-
rier across the entrance to the abbey
court, to keep the sheep from entering
there.

The most remarkable of Nixon's pre-
dictions or revelations was at the time
of the battle on Bosworth Field between
Richard III. and Henry VII. On that
day, as he was driving a pair of oxen,
he stopped suddenly, and with his whip
pointing now one way, now another,

Chester Streets.

cried aloud, " Now Richard," " Now
Harry ! " At last he said, " Now, Harry,
get over that ditch, and you gain the
day ! " The plowmen with him were
greatly amazed, and related to many
persons what had passed. When a courier
came through the country announcing
the result of the battle he verified every
word Nixon had said.

This courier, when he returned to
court, recounted Nixon's predictions ;
and King Henry was so impressed by
them that he at once sent orders to
have him brought to the palace.

Before this messenger arrived, Nixon
ran about like a madman, weeping and
crying that the king was about sending
for him, and that he must go to court,
to be starved to death.

In a few days the royal messenger ap-
peared. Nixon was turning the spit in
his brother's kitchen. Just before the
messenger came in sight, he shrieked
out, " He is on the road ! He is coming
for me ! I shall be starved ! "

Lamenting loudly, he was carried
away almost by force, and taken into
the presence of the king, who tried him
with various tests : among others, he hid
a diamond ring, and commanded Nixon
to find it ; but all the answer he got from
the cunning varlet was, " He that hideth
can find." The king caused all he said
to be carefully noted and put down in
writing ; gave him the run of the palace,
and commanded that no one should mo-
lest or offend him any way.

One day, when the king was setting
off on a hunt, Nixon ran to him, cry-
ing and begging to be allowed to go,
too ; saying that his time had come now,
and he would be starved if he were left
behind. To humor his whim and ease
his fears, the king gave him into the es-
pecial charge and keeping of one of the
chief officers of the court. The officer,
in turn, to make sure that no ill befell
the poor fellow, locked him up in one
of his private rooms, and with his own
hands carried food to him. But after a

Chester Streets.

[January,

day or two, a very urgent message from
the king calling this officer suddenly
away, iu the haste of his departure he
forgot Nixon, and left him locked up in
the apartment. No one missed him or
discovered him, and when at the end
of three days the officer returned, Nixon
was found dead — dead, as he had him-
self foretold, of starvation. It is a
strange and pitiful story, a tale suited
to its century, and could not be left out
were there ever to be written a bal-
lad-history of the Vale-Royale's olden
days.

It is a question, in early mornings in
Chester, whether to take a turn on the
ancient walls, listening to echoes such
as these from all the fair country in
sight in embrace of the Dee, or to saun-
ter through the market, and hear the
shriller but no less characteristic voice
of Cestrian life to-day.

Markets are always good vantage-
grounds for studying the life and people
of a place or region. The true traveler
never feels completely at home in a
town till he has been in the markets.
Many times I have gathered from the
chance speech of an ignorant market
jnan or woman information I had been
in search of for days. Markets are es-
pecially interesting in places where caste
and class lines are strongly drawn, as
in England. The market man or woman
whose ancestors have been of the same
following, and who has no higher ambi-
tion iu life than to continue, aud if pos-
sible enhance, the good will and the
good name of the business, is good au-
thority to consult on all matters within
his range. There is a self-poise about
him, the result of his satisfaction with
his own position, which is dignified and
pleasing.

On my last morning in Chester, I
spent an hour or two in the markets,
and encountered two good specimens of
this class. One was a fair, slender girl,
so unexceptionably dressed in a plain,
well-cut ulster that, as I observed her in

the crowd of market-women, I supposed
she was a young housekeeper, out for
her early marketing : but presently, to
my great astonishment, I saw her with
her own hands measuring onions into a
huckster-woman's basket. On drawing
nearer, I discovered that she was the
proprietress of a natty vegetable cart,
piled full of all sorts of green stuff,
which she was selling to the sellers.
She could not have been more than
eighteen. Her manner and speech were
prompt, decisive, business-like, she wast-
ed no words in her transactions. Her
little brother held the sturdy pony's
reins, and she stood by the side of the
cart, ready to take orders. She said
that she lived ten miles out of town ;
that she and her three brothers had a
large market garden, of which they did
all the work with their own hands, and
she and this lad brought the prodi^ce to
market daily.

" I make more sellin' 'olesale than
sellin' standin','' she said ; " an' I 'm
'ome again by ten o'clock, to be at the
work."

I observed that all who bought from
her addressed her as " miss," and bore
themselves toward her with a certain
respectfulness of demeanor, showing that
they considered her avocation a grade
or so above their own.

A matronly woman, with pink cheeks
and bright hazel eyes, had walked in
from her farm, a distance of six miles,
because the load of greens, eggs, poul-
try, and flowers was all that her small
pony could draw. Beautiful moss roses
she had, at "thrippence" a bunch.

" No, no, Ada, not any more," she
said, in a delicious low voice, to a child
by her side, who was slyly taking a rose
from one oi the baskets. " You 've
enough there. It hurts them to lie in
the 'ot sun. My daughter, mem," she
explained, as the little thing shrunk
back, covered with confusion, and pre-
tended to be very busy arranging the
flowers on a little board laid across two

1884.]

Chester Streets.

stones, behind which she was squatted,
— " my daughter, mem. All the profits
of the flowers they sell are their own,
mem. They puts it all in the mission-
ary box. They 'd eighteen an' six last
year, mem, in all, besides what they put
in the school box. Yes, mem, indeed
they had." >

It struck me that this devout mother
took a strange view of the meaning of
the word "own," and I did not spend
so much money on Ada's flowers as I
would have done if I had thought Ada
would have the spendiug of it herself,
in her own childish way. But I bought
a big bunch of red and white daisies,
and another of columbines, white pinks,
ivy, and poppies ; and the little maid,
barely ten years old, took my silver,
made change, and gave me the flowers
with a winsome smile and a genuine
market-woman's " Thank you, mem."

Jt was a pretty scene : the open space
in front of the market building, filled
with baskets, bags, barrows, piles of
fresh green things, chiefly of those end-
less cabbage species, which England so
proudly enumerates when called upon
to mention her vegetables ; the dealers
were principally women, with fresh, fair
faces, rosy cheeks, and soft voices ; in
the outer circle, scores of tiny donkey
carts, in which' the vegetables had been
brought. One chubby little girl, surely
not more than seven, was beginning her
market-woman's training by minding
the donkey, while her mother attended
to trade. As she stood by the donkey's
side, her head barely reached to his
ears ; but he entered very cleverly into
the spirit of the farce of being kept in
place by such a mite, and to that end
employed her busily in feeding him with
handful s of grass. If she stopped, he
poked his nose into her neck and rum-

maged under her chin, till she began
again. All had flowers to sell, if it
were only a single bunch, or plant in
a pot ; and there were in the building
several fine stalls entirely filled with
flowers, — roses, carnations, geraniums,
and wonderful pansies. Noticing, in
one stall, a blossom I had never before
seen, I asked the old woman who kept
the stand to tell me its name. She
clapped her hand to her head tragically.
" 'Deed, mem, it 's strange. Ye 're the
second has asked me the name o' that
flower ; an' it 's gone out o' my head.
If the young lady that has the next
stand was here, she 'd tell ye. It was
from her I got the roots : she 's a great
botanist, mem, an' a fine gardener.
Could I send ye the name o' 't, mem ?
I 'd be pleased to accommodate ye, an'
may be ye 'd like a root or two o' 't.
It 's a free grower. We 've 'ad a death
in the house, mem, — my little grand-
child, only a few hours ill, — an' it seems
like it' ad confused the 'ole 'ouse. We
've not 'ad 'eart to take pains with the
flowers yet."

The old woman's artless, garrulous
words smote like a sudden bell-note
echo from a far past, — an echo that
never ceases, for hearts that have once
known how bell notes sound when bells
toll for beloved dead ! The thoughts
her words woke seemed to span Ches-
ter's centuries more vividly than all the
old chronicle traditions and legends,
than sculptured Roman altar, or coin,
or graven story in stone. The strange
changes they recorded were but things
of the surface, conditions of the hour.
Through and past them all, life re-
mained the same. Grief and joy do
not alter shape or sort. Love and
love's losses and hurts are the same
yesterday, to-day, and forever.

H.H.

The Bishop's Vagabond*

[January,

THE; BISHOP'S VAGABOND.

THE Bishop was walking down the
wide Aiken street. He was the only
bishop in Aiken, and they made much
of him, accordingly, though his diocese
was in the West, which of course was a
drawback.

He was a tall man, with a handsome,
kind face under his shovel hat ; portly,
as a bishop should be, and having a
twinkle of humor in his eye. He dressed
well and soberly, in the decorous habil-
iments of his office. " So English," the
young ladies of the Highland Park Ho-
tel used to whisper to each other, ad-
miring him. Perhaps this is the time
to mention that the Bishop was a wid-
ower.

To-day he walked at a gentle pace,
repeatedly lifting his hat in answer to
a multitude of salutations ; for it was
a bright April day, and the street was
thronged. There was the half-humor-
ous incongruity between the people and
the place always visible in a place where
two thirds of the population are a mere
pleasant- weather growth, dependent on
the climate. Groups of Northerners
stood in the red and blue and green
door-ways of the gay little shops, or
sauntered past them ; easily distinguished
by their clothing and their air of unac-
customed and dissatisfied languor. One
could pick out at a glance the new-com-
ers just up from Florida ; they were so
decorated with alligator-tooth jewelry,
and gazed so contemptuously at the
oranges and bananas in the windows.
The native Southerners were equally
conspicuous, in the case of the men,
from their careless dress and placid de-
meanor. A plentiful sprinkling of black
and yellow skins added to the pictur-
esque character of the scene. Over it
all hung a certain holiday air, the rea-
son for which one presently detected to be
an almost universal wearing of flowers,

— bunches of roses, clusters of violets or
trailing arbutus, or twigs of yellow jas-
mine ; while barefooted boys, with dusky
faces and gleaming teeth, proffered nose-
gays at every corner. The Aiken nose-
gay has this peculiarity, — the flowers are
wedged together with unexampled tight-
ness. Truly enough may the little ven-
ders boast, " Dey 's orful lots o' roses
in dem, mister ; you '11 fin' w'en you
onties 'em." No one of the pedestrians
appeared to be in a hurry ; and under
all the holiday air of flowers there was
a pathetic disproportion of pale and
weary faces.

But if they did not hurry on the side-
walk, there was plenty of motion in the
street ; horses in Aiken being always
urged to their full speed, — which, to be
sure, is not alarming. Now, carriages
were whirling by and riders galloping
in both directions. The riders were of
every age, sex, and condition : pretty
girls in jaunty riding habits, young men
with polo mallets, old men and children,
and grinning negroes lashing their sorry
hacks with twigs. Of the carriages, it
would be hard to tell which was the
more noticeable, the smartness of the
vehicles, or the jaded depression of the
thin beasts that pulled them. Where
Park and Ashland avenues meet at
right angles the crowd was most dense.
There, on one side, one sees the neat lit-
tle post-office and the photographer's
gallery, and off in the distance the white
pine towers of the hotel, rising out of
its green hills ; on the other, the long
street slowly climbs the hill, through
shops and square white houses with
green blinds, set back in luxuriant gar-
dens. At this corner two persons were
standing, a young man and a young
woman, both watching the Bishop. The
young woman was tall, handsome, and

— always an attraction in Aiken —

1884.]

The Bishop's Vagabond.

evidently not an invalid. The erect
grace of her slim figure, the soft and
varying color on her cheek, the light
in her beautiful brown eyes, — all were
the unmistakable signs of health. The
young man was a good-looking little
fellow, perfectly dressed, and having an
expression of indolent amusement on
his delicate features. He had light yel-
low hair, cut closely enough to show
the fine outline of his head, a slight
mustache waxed at the ends, and a very
fair complexion.

The young woman was speaking.
" Do you see to whom my father is talk-
ing, Mr. Talboys ? " said she.

" Plainly, he has picked up his vag-
abond."

" Demming ? Yes, it is Demming."

" Now I wonder, do you know," said
the young man, " what induces the Bish-
op to waste his time on such hopeless
moral trash as that." He spoke in a
pleasant, slow voice, with an English ac-
cent.

" It is n't hopeless to him, I suppose,"
she answered. Her voice also was slow,
and it was singularly sweet.

" I think it must be his sense of hu-
mor," he continued. " The Bishop loves
a joke, and Demming is a droll fellow.
He is a sort of grim joke himself, you
know, a high-toned gentleman who lives
by begging. He brings his bag to the
hotels every day. Of course you have
heard him talk, Miss Louise. His strong
card is his wife. ' Th' ole 'ooman 's
nigh bliu',' " — here Talboys gave a
very good imitation of the South Caro-
lina local drawl — " ' an' she 's been so
tenderly raised she cyan't live 'thout
cyoffee three times a day ! ' '

" I have heard that identical speech,"
said Louise, smiling as Talboys knew
she would smile over the imitation. "He
gets a good deal from the Northerners,
I fancy."

" Enough to enable him to be a pil-
lar of the saloons," said Talboys. " He
is a lavish soul, and treats the crowd

when he prospers in his profession.
Once his money gave out before the
crowd's thirst. ' Never min', geu'lemen,'
says our friend, ' res' easy. I see the
Bishop agwine up the street ; I '11 git
a dollar from him. Yes, wait ; I won't
be gwiue long.' "

" And he got the money ? "

" Oh, yes. I believe he got it to buy
quinine for ' th' ole 'ooman,' who was
down with the break-bone fever. He
is like Yorick, ' a fellow of infinite
jest ' — in the way of lying. He talks
well, too. You ought to hear him dis-
course on politics. As he gets most of
his revenue from the North, he is kind
enough to express the friendliest senti-
ments. 'I wuz opposed to the wah's
bein' ' is his standard speech, ' an' now
I 'm opposed to its contiuneriuV For
all that, he was a mild kind of Ku-
Klux."

" He did it for money, he says," re-
turned Louise. " The funniest thing
about him is his absolute frankness after
he is found out in any trick. He does
n't seem to have any sense of shame,
and will fairly chuckle in my father's
face as he is owning up to some piece of
roguery."

" You know he was in the Confeder-
ate army. Fought well, too, I 'm told.
"What does he do when the Northerners
are gone ? Aiken must be a pretty bare
begging ground."

" Oh, he has a wretched little cabin
out in the woods," said Louise, " and a
sweet-potato patch. He raises sweet-
potatoes and persimmons " —

" And pigs," Talboys interrupted.
" I saw some particularly lean swine
grubbing about in the sand for snakes.
They feed them on snakes, in the pine
barrens, you know, which serves two
purposes : kills the snakes and fills the
pigs. Entertainment for man and beast,
don't you see ? By the way, talking of
being entertained, I know of a fine old
Southern manor-house over the bridge."

Louise shook her head incredulously.

The Bishop's Vagabond.

[January,

" I have lost faith in Southern manor-
houses. Ever since I came South I
have sought them vainly. All the way
from Atlanta I risked my life, putting
my head out of the car windows, to see
the plantations. At every scrubby -look-
ing little station we passed, the conduc-
tor would say, ' Mighty nice people live
heah ; great deal of wealth heah before
the wah ! ' Then I would recklessly
put my head out. I expected to see the
real Southern mansion of the novelists,
with enormous piazzas and Corinthian
pillars and beautiful avenues ; and the
whitewashed cabins of the negroes in
the middle distance ; and the planter,
in a white linen suit and a wide straw
hat, sitting on the piazza drinking mint
juleps. Well, I don't really think I ex-
pected the planter, but I did hope for
the house. Nothing of the kind. All
I saw was a moderate - sized square
house, with piazzas and a flat roof, all
sadly in need of paint. Now, I 'm like
Betsey Prig : ' I don't believe there 's no
sich person.' It 's a myth, like the good
old Southern cooking."

" Oh, they do exist," said Talboys, his
eyes brightening over this long speech,
delivered in the softest voice in the
world. " There are houses in Charleston
and Beaufort and on the Lower Missis-
sippi that suggest the novels ; but, on
the whole, I think the novelists have
played us false. We expect to find the
ruins of luxury and splendor and all
that sort of thing in the South ; but in
point of fact there was very little lux-
ury about Southern life. They had
plenty of service, such as it was, and
plenty of horses, and that was about
all ; their other household arrangements
were painfully primitive. All the same,
sha'n't we go over the bridge ? "

Louise assented, and they turned and
went their way in the opposite direc-
tion.

Meanwhile, the Bishop and his vaga-
bond were talking earnestly. The vag-
abond seemed to belong to the class

known as " crackers." Poverty, sick-
ness, and laziness were written in every
flutter of his rags, in every uncouth curve
or angle of his long, gaunt figure and
sallow face. A mass of unkempt iron-
gray hair fell about his sharp features,
further hidden by a grizzly beard. His
black frock coat had once adorned the
distinguished and ample person of a
Northern senator ; it wrinkled dismally
about Demming's bones, while its soiled
gentility was a queer contrast to his
nether garments of ragged butternut,
his coarse boots, and an utterly disrepu-
table hat, through a hole of which a tuft
of hair had made its way, and waved
plume-wise in the wind. Around the
hat was wound a strip of rusty crape.
The Bishop quickly noticed this woeful
addition to the man's garb. He asked
the reason.

" She 's done gone, Bishop," answered
Demming, winking his eyes hard before
rubbing them with a grimy knuckle;
•' th' ole 'ooman 's done leff' me 'lone
in the worl'. It 's an orful 'fliction ! "
He made so pitiful a figure, standing
there in the sandy road, the wind flut-
tering his poor token of mourning, that
the Bishop's kind heart was stirred.

" I am truly sorry, Demming," said
he. " Is n't this very sudden ? "

" Laws, yes, Bishop, powerful suddint
an' onprecedented. 'Pears 's if I could
n't git myself to b'lieve it, nohow. Yes'-
day ev'nin' she wuz chipper 's evah, out
pickin' pine buds; an' this mahnin' she
woked me up, an' says she, ' I reckon
you 'd better fix the cyoffee yo'self,
Demming, I feel so cu'se,' says she. An'
so I did ; an' when I come to gin it ter
her, oh, Lordy, oh, Lordy ! — 'scuse
me, Bishop, — she wuz cole an' dead !
Doctor cyould n't do nuthin', w'en I
brung 'im. Rheumatchism o' th' heart,
he says. It wuz turrible suddint, ony-
how. 'Minded me o' them thar games
with the thimble, you know, Bishop, —
now ye see it, an' now ye don' ; yes, 's
quick 's thet ! "

1884.]

The Bishop's Vagabond.

The Bishop opened his eyes at the
comparison ; but Demming had turned
away, with a quivering lip, to bury his
face in his hands, and the Bishop was
reproached for his criticism of the
other's naif phraseology. Now, to be
frank, he had approached Demming
prepared to show severity, rather than
sympathy, because of the cracker's last
flagrant wrong-doing ; but his indigna-
tion, righteous though it was, took flight
before grief. Forgetting judgment in
mercy, he proffered all the consolations
he could summon, spiritual and material,
and ended by asking Demming if he had
made any preparations for the funeral.

" Thet thar 's w'at I 'm yere for," re-
plied the man mournfully. " You know
jes how I 'm fixed. Cyoffius cost a
heap ; an' then thar 's the shroud, an' I
ain't got no reg'lar fun'al ^ cloze, an'
'pears 's ef 't 'ud be a conserlation t' have
a kerridge or two. She wuz a bawn
lady, Bishop ; we 're kin ter some o' the
real aristookracy o' Carolina, — we are,
fur a fac' ; an' I 'd kin' o' like ter hev
her ride ter her own fun'al, onyhow."

" Then you will need money ? "

" Not frum you, Bishop, not a red
cent ; but if you uns over thar," jerking
his thumb in the direction of the white
pine towers, — " if you all 'd kin' o' gin
me a small sum, an' ef you 'd jes start
a paper, as 't were, an' al-so ef you yo'-
self 'ud hev the gret kin'ness ter come
out an' conduc' the fun'al obskesies, it
'ud gratify the corpse powerful. Mis-
tress Demming '11 be entered 1 then like
a bawn lady. Yes, sir, thet thar, an'
no mo', 's w'at I 'm emboldened ter ax
frum you."

The Bishop reflected. " Demming,"
saitl he gravely, " I will try to help you.
You have no objection, I suppose, to
our buying the coffin and other things
needed. We will pay the bills."

Demming's dejected bearing grew a
shade more sombre : he waved his hand,

1 It is supposed that Mr. Demming intended to
say " interred."

a gesture very common with him, and
usually denoting affable approval ; now
it meant gloomy assent. " No objection
't all, Bishop," he said. " I knows my
weakness, though I don' feel now as
ef I 'd evah want ter go on no carouse-
ments no mo'. I 'm 'bliged ter you uns
jes the same. An' you won't forget
'bout the cloze ? I 've been a right good
frien' to th' Norf in Aiken, an' I hope
the Norf '11 stan' by me in the hour o'
trubbel. Now, Bishop, I '11 be gwine
'long. You '11 fin' 'me at the cyoffin sto'.
Mose Barnwell — he 's a mighty de-
cent cullud man — lives nigh me ; he 's
gwine fur ter len' me his cyart ter tek
the cyoffin home. Mahnin', Bishop, an'
min', I don' want money outeu you.
No, sir, I do not ! "

Then, having waved his hand at his
hat, the cracker slouched away. The
Bishop had a busy morning. He went
from friend to friend, until the needed
sum was collected. Nor did money sat-
isfy him : he gathered together a suit
of clothes from the tallest Northerners
of benevolent impulses. Talboys was
too short to be a donor of clothes, but
he gave more money than all the others
united, — a munificence that rebuked the
Bishop, for he had sought the young
Boston man last of all and reluctantly ;
somehow, he could not feel acquainted
with him, notwithstanding many rneet-
ings in many places. Moreover, he held
him in slight esteem, as an idle fellow
who did little good with a great fortune.
In his gratitude he became expansive :
told Talboys about his acquaintance with
the cracker, described his experiences
and perplexities, and at last invited the
young man to go to the funeral, the next
day. Talboys was delighted to accept
the invitation ; yet it could not be said
that he was often delighted. But he ad-
mired the Bishop, and, even more warm-
ly, he admired the Bishop's daughter ;
hence he caught at any opportunity to
show his friendliness. Martin Talboys
was never enthusiastic, and at times his

The Bishop's Vagabond.

[January,

views of life might be called cynical;
but it would be a mistake to infer, there-
fore, that, as is common enough, he,
having a mean opinion of other people,
struck a balance with a very high one
of himself. In truth, Martin was too
modest for his own peace of mind. For
years he had contrived to meet Lou-
ise, by accident, almost everywhere she
went. She traveled a good deal, and
her image was relieved against a variety
of backgrounds. It seemed to him fair-
er in each new picture. His love for
the Bishop's daughter grew more and
more absorbing ; but at the same time
he became less and less sanguine that
she would ever care for him. Although
he was not enthusiastic, he was quite
capable of feeling deeply ; and he had
begun to suspect that he was capable of
suffering. Yet he could not force him-
self to decide his fate by speaking. It
was not that Louise disliked him : on
the contrary, she avowed a sincere lik-
ing ; she always hailed his coming with
pleasure, telling him frankly that no
one amused her as did he. There, alas,
was the hopeless part of it ; he used to
say bitterly to himself that he was n't
a man, a lover, to her ; he was a mimic,
a genteel clown, an errand boy, never
out of temper with his work ; in short,
she did not take him seriously at all.
He knew the manner of man she did
take seriously, — a man of action, who
had done something in the world. Once
she told Talboys that he was a " cap-
ital observer." She made the remark
as a compliment, but it stung him to
the quick ; he realized that she thought
of him only as an observer. When a
trifling but obstinate throat complaint
brought the Bishop to Aiken, Talboys
felt a great longing to win his approval.
Surely, Louise, who judged all men by
her father's standard, must be influenced
by her father's favor. Unhappily, the
Bishop had never, as the phrase goes,
" taken " to Talboys, nor did he seem
more inclined to take to him now, and

Martin was too modest to persist in un-
welcome attentions. But he greeted the
present opportunity all the more warmly.

In the morning, the three — the Bish-
op, Louise, and Talboys — drove to the
cracker's cabin. The day was perfect,
one of those Aiken days, so fair that
even invalids find no complaint in their
wearisome list to bring against them
and can but sigh over each, " Ah, if all
days might only be like this ! " Hardly
a cloud marred the tender blue of the
sky. The air was divinely soft. They
drove through the woods, and the ground
was carpeted with dry pine spikes, where-
on their horses' hoofs made a dull and
pleasant sound. A multitude of violets
grew in the little spaces among the trees.
Yellow jasmine flecked the roadside
shade with gold, its fragrance blending
with the keen odors of the pine. If
they looked up, they saw the pine tops
etched upon the sky, and a solemn, cease-
less murmur beat its organ -like waves
through all* their talk. The Bishop had
put on his clerical robes ; he sat on the
back seat of the carriage, a superb fig-
ure, with his noble head and imposing
mien. As they rolled along, the Bishop
talked. He spoke of death. He spoke
not as a priest, but as a man, dwelling
on the mystery of death, bringing up
those speculations with which from the
beginning men have striven to light the
eternal darkness.

" I suppose it is the mystery," said
the Bishop, " which causes the unreality
of death, its perpetual surprise. Now,
behind my certainty of this poor wo-
man's death I have a lurking expecta-
tion of seeing her standing in the door-
way, her old clay pipe in her mouth. I
can't help it."

" Though she was a ' bawn lady,' she
smoked, did she ? " said Talboys. Then
he felt the remark to be hopelessly be-
low the level of the conversation, and
made haste to add, " I suppose it was a
consolation to her; she had a pretty
hard life, I fancy."

1884.]

The Bishop's Vagabond.

" Awfully," said Louise. " She was
nearly blind, poor woman, yet I think
she did whatever work was done. I
have often seen her hoeing. I believe
that Demmiug was always good to her,
though. He is a most amiable crea-
ture."

" Singular how a woman will bear
any amount of laziness, actual worth-
lessness, indeed, in a man who is good
to her," the Bishop remarked.

" Beautiful trait in her character,"
said Talboys. " Where should we be
without it ? "

" Have the Demmings never had any
children ? " asked Louise, who did not
like the turn the talk was taking.

" Yes, one," the Bishop answered, "a
little girl. She died three years ago.
Dernrning was devotedly attached to
her. He can't talk of her now without
the tears coming to his eyes. He really,"
said the Bishop meditatively, " seemed
more affected when he told me about
her death than he was yesterday. She
died of some kind of low fever, and was
ill a long time. He used to walk up
and down the little path through the
woods, holding her in his arms. She
would wake up in the night and cry,
and he would wrap her in an old army
blanket, and pace in front of the house
for hours. Often the teamsters driv-
ing into town at break of day, with
their loads of wood, would come on him
thus, walking and talking to the child,
with the little thin face on his shoulder,
and the ragged blanket trailing on the
ground. Ah, Dcraming is not alto-
gether abandoned, he has an affectionate
heart ! "

Neither of his listeners made any re-
sponse : Talboys, because of his slender
faith in Demming ; Louise, because she
was thinking that if the Aiken laun-
dresses were intrusted with her father's
lawn many more times there would
be nothing left to darn. They went on
silently, therefore, until the Bishop said,
in a low voice, " Here we are ! "

The negro driver, with the agility of
a country coachman, had already sprung
to the ground, and was holding the car-
riage door open.

Before them lay a small cleared tract
of land, where a pleasant greenness of
young potato vines hid the sand. In
the centre was a tumble-down cabin,
with a mud chimney on the outside.
The one window had no sash, and its
rude shutter hung precariously by a sin-
gle leathern hinge. The door was open,
revealing that the -interior was papered
with newspapers. Three or four yelp-
ing curs seemed to be all the furniture.

There was nothing extraordinary in
the picture ; one could see fifty such cab-
ins, in a radius of half a mile. Nor
was there anything of mark in the ap-
pearance of Demming himself, dressed
exactly as he was the day before, and
rubbing his eyes in the doorway. But
behind him ! The coachman's under
jaw dropped beneath the weight of a
loud " To' de Lawd ! " The Bishop's
benignant countenance was suddenly
crimsoned. Talboys and Louise looked
at each other, and bit their lips. It
was only a woman, — a tall, thin, bent
woman in a shabby print gown, with a
faded sunbonnet pushed back from her
gray head and a common clay pipe be-
tween her lips. Probably in her youth
she had been a pretty woman, and the
worn features and dim eyes still re-
tained something engaging in their ex-
pression of timid good-will.

" Won' you all step in ? " she said,
advancing.

" Yes, yes," added Demming, inclin-
ing his body and waving both hands
with magnificent courtesy ; " alight, gen-
tlemen, alight ! I 'm sorry I ain't no
staggah juice to offah ye, but yo' right
welcome to sweet-potatoes an' pussim-
nion beah, w'ich 's all " —

" Demming," said the Bishop sternly,
" what does this mean ? I came to bury
Mrs. Demming, and — and here she
is!"

The Bishop's Vagabond.

[January,

" Burry me ! " exclaimed the woman.
" Why, I ain't dead ! "

Denim ing rubbed his hands, his face
wearing an indescribable expression of
mingled embarrassment, contrition, and
bland insinuation. " Well, yes, Bishop,
yere she is, an' no mistake ! Nuthin'
more 'n a swond, you uunerstan'. I
'lowed ter notify you uns this mahnin',
but fac' is I wuz so decomposed, fin'in'
her traipsin' 'bout in the gyardin an'
you all 'xpectin' a fuu'al, thet I jes hed
ter brace up ; an' fac' is I braced up too
much, an' ovahslep. I 'm powerful sorry,
an' I don' blame you uns ef you do
feel mad ! "

The Bishop flung off his robes in
haste and walked to the carriage, where
he bundled them iu with scant regard
for their crispness.

" Never heard of such a thing ! " said
Louise, that being her invariable for-
mula for occasions demanding expres-
sion before she was prepared to commit
herself. By this time a glimmering no-
tion of the state of things had reached
the coachman's brain, and he was in an
ecstasy. Talboys thought it fitting to
speak. He turned to Mrs. Demming,
who was looking from one to another of
the group, in a scaled way.

" Were you in a swoon ? " he asked.

" Oh, laws ! " cried the poor woman.

" Oh, Demming, what hev you gwine

an' done now ? Gentlemen, he did n't

mean no harm. I 'm suah ! "

" You were not, then ? " said Talboys.
" Leave her 'lone, Gunnel," Demming
said quietly. " Don' yo' see she cyan't
stan' no sech racket ? 'Sence yo' so
mighty peart 'bout it. no, she wahn't,
an' thet thar 's the truf. I jes done it
fur ter raise money. It wuz this a way.
Thet thar mahnin', w'ile I wuz a-consid-
erin' an' a-contemplatin' right smart how
I wuz evah to git a few dollars, I seen
Mose Barnwell gwine 'long, — yo' know
Mose Barnwell," turning in an affable,
conversational way to the grinning ne-
gro, — " an' he 'd a string o' crape 'roun'

his hat 'cause he'd jes done loss' his
wife, an' he wuz purportiu' ter git a
cyoffin. So I 'lowed I'd git a cyoffiu
fur him cheap. An' I reckon," said
Demming, smiling graciously on his de-
lighted black auditor, — "I reckon I
done it."

" Demming," cried the Bishop, with
some heat, " this exceeds patience " —

" I know, Bishop," answered the vag-
abond meekly, — "I know it. I wuz
tempted an' I fell, as you talked 'bout
in yo' sermon. It 's orful how I kin do
sech things ! "

"And those chickens, too!" ejacu-
lated the Bishop, with rising wrath, as
new causes rushed to his remembrance.
" You stole chickens, — Judge Eldridge's
chickens ; you who pretend to be such
a staunch friend of the North " —

" Chickens ! " screamed the woman.
" Oh, Lordy ! Oh, he nevah done thet
afo'e ! He '11 be took to jail ! Oh, Dem-
ming, how cyould ye ? Stealin' chick-
ens, jes like a low-down, no-'cyount
niggah ! " Sobs choked her voice, and
tears of fright and shame were stream-
ing down her hollow cheeks.

Demming looked disconcerted. " Now,
look a-yere ! " said he, sinking his voice
reproachfully ; " w'at wuz the use o'
bringin' thet thar up befo' th' ole 'ooman ?
She don' know nuthin' on it, you unner-
stan', an' why mus' you rile 'er up fur ?
I 'd not a thought it o' you, Bishop, thet
I wyould n't. Now, Alwynda," turning
to the weeping woman, who was wiping
her eyes with the cape of her sunbon-
net, " jes you dry up an' stop yo' beller-
in', an' I 'splain it all in a holy minnit.
Thar, thar," patting her on the shoulder,
" 't ain't nuthin' ter cry 'bout; 't ain't
no fault o' yourn, onyhow. 'Fac' is,
gen'lemen, 't wuz all 'long o' my 'precia-
tion o' the Bishop. I 'm a 'Piscopal, like
yo'self, Bishop, an' I tole Samson Mob-
ley thet you overlaid all the preachers
yere fur goodness an' shortness bofe.
An' he 'lowed, 'Mabbe he may fur
goodness ; I ain't no jedge,' says he ;

1884.]

The Bishop's Vagabond.

' but fo' shortness, we 've a feller down
at the Baptis' kin beat 'im outen sight.
They 've jes 'gin up sleepin' down thar,'
says he, ' 'cause taia't worth w'ile.' So
we tried it on, you unnerstand, 'cause
thet riled me, an' I jes bet on it, I did ;
an' we tried it on, — you in the mahnin'
and him in the arternoon. An' laws,
ef did n't so happen as how you 'd a
powerful flow o' speech ! 'T wuz 'maz-
in' edifyin', but 't los' me the bet, you
unnerstan' ; an' onct los' I hed ter pay ;
an' not havin' ary chick o' my own I
had ter confiscate some frum th' gineral
public, an' I tuk 'em 'thout distinction
o' party frum the handiest cyoop in the
Baptis' del-nomination. I kin' o' han-
kered arter Baptis' chickuns, somehow,
so 's ter git even, like. Now, Bishop, I
jes leaves ter you uns, cyould I go back
on a debt o' honah, like thet ? "

" Honor ! " repeated the Bishop scorn-
fully.

Talboys interposed again : " We ap-
pear to be sold, Bishop ; don't you think
we had better get out of this before the
hearse comes ? "

Demming waved his hand at Talboys,
saying in his smoothest tones, " Ef you
meet it, Gunnel, p'raps you 'd kin'ly
tell 'em ter go on ter Mose Barnwell's.
He 's ready an' waitin'."

" Demming " — began the Bishop, but
he did not finish the sentence : instead,
he lifted his hat to Mrs. Demming, with
his habitual stately courtesy, and moved
in a slow and dignified manner to the
carriage. Louise followed, only stopping
to say to the still weeping woman, " He
is in no danger from us ; but this trick
was a poor return for my father's kind-
ness."

Demming had been rubbing his right
eyebrow obliquely with his hand, thus
making a shield behind which he winked
at the coachman in a friendly and hu-
morous manner ; at Louise's words, his
hand fell and his face changed quickly.
" Don' say thet, miss," he said, a ring of
real emotion in his voice. " I know I 'm

VOL. LIII. — NO. 315. 3

purty po' pickin's, but I ain't ongreatful.
Yo' par will remember I wyould n't tek
no money frum him! "

"I would have given fifty dollars,"
cried the Bishop, " rather than have had
this — this scandalous fraud ! Drive
on!"

They drove away. The last they saw
of Demming he was blandly waving his
hand.

The drive back from the house so un-
expectedly disclosed as not a house of
mourning was somewhat silent. The
Bishop was the first to speak. " I shall
insist upon returning every cent of that
money," he said.

" I assure you none of us will take
it," Talboys answered ; "and really, you
know, the sell was quite worth the
money."

" And you did see her, after all," said
Louise dryly, " standing in the doorway,
with her old clay pipe in her mouth."

The Bishop smiled, but he sighed, too.
" Well, well, I ought not to have lost
my temper. But I am disappointed in
Demming. I thought I had won his af-
fection, and I hoped through his affec-
tion to reach his conscience. I suppose
I deceived myself."

" I fear he has n't any conscience to
reach," Louise observed.

" I agree with Miss Louise," said
Talboys. "You see, Demming is a
cracker."

" Ah ! the cracker has his virtues,"
observed the Bishop ; " not the cardi-
nal New England virtues of thrift and
cleanliness and energy ; but he has his
own. He is as hospitable as an Arab,
brave, faithful, and honest, and full of
generosity and kindness."

" All the same, he is n't half civilized,"
said Talboys, " and as ignorant morally
as any being you can pick up. He does
n't steal or lie much, I grant you, but
he smashes all the other commandments
to flinders. He kills when he thinks he
has been insulted, and he has n't the fee-
blest scruples about changing his old

The Bishop's Vagabond.

[January,

wife for a new one whenever he feels
like it, without any nonsense of divorce.
The women are just as bad as the men.
But Demming is not only a cracker ;
he is a cracker spoiled by the tourists.
We have despoiled him of his simplici-
ty. He has n't learned any good of us,
— that goes without saying, — but he has
learned no end of Yankee tricks. Do
you suppose that if left to himself he
would ever have been up to this morn-
ing's performance ? Oh, we 've polished
his wicked wits for him ! Even his di-
alect is no longer pure South Carolin-
ian ; it is corrupted by Northern slang.
We have ruined his religious principles,
too. The crackers have n't much of any
morality, but they are very religious, —
all Southerners are. But Demming is
an unconscious Agnostic. ' I tell ye,'
he says to the saloon theologians, ' thar
ain't no tellin'. 'Ligion 's a heap like
jumpin' a'ter a waggin in th' dark : yo'
mo' 'n likely ter Ian' onnuthin' ! ' And
you have seen for yourselves that he has
lost the cracker honesty."

" At least," said Louise, " he has the
cracker hospitality left ; he made us
welcome to all he had."

" And did you notice," said the Bish-
op, who had quite smoothed his ruffled
brow by this time, — " did you notice the
consideration, tenderness almost, that
he showed to his wife ? Demming has
his redeeming qualities, believe me, Mr.
Talboys."

" I see that you don't mean to give
him up," said Talboys, smiling ; but he
did not pursue the subject.

For several days Demming kept away
from Aiken. When he did appear he
rather avoided the Bishop. He bore the
jokes and satirical congratulations of his
companions with his usual equanimity ;
but he utterly declined to gratify public
curiosity either at the saloon or the gro-
cery. One morning he met the Bishop.
They walked a long way together, and
it was observed that they seemed to be
on most cordial terms. This happened

on Tuesday. Friday morning Demming
came to the Bishop in high spirits. He
showed a letter from a cousin in Charles-
ton, a very old man, with no near kin-
dred and a comfortable property. This
cousin, repenting of an old injustice to
Demming's mother, had bethought him
of Demming, his nearest relative ; and
sent for him, inclosing money to pay all
expenses. " He is right feeble," said
Demming, with a cheerful accent not ac-
cording with his mournful words, " an'
wants ter see me onct fo' he departs.
Reckon he means ter do well by me."

The Bishop's hopeful soul saw a
chance for the cracker's reclamation.
So he spoke solemnly to him, warning
him against periling his future by relaps-
ing into his old courses in Charleston.
Nothing could exceed Demming's bland
humility. He filled every available
pause in the exhortation with " Thet 's
so," and " Shoo 's yo' bawn ! " and an-
swered, " I 'm gwine ter be 's keerful 's
a ole coon thet 's jes got shet o' the
dogs. You uevah said truer words than
them thar, an' don' you forget it ! I 'm
gwine ter buy mo' Ian', an' raise hogs,
an' keep th' ole 'ooman like a lady.
Don' ye be 'feard o' me gwine on no*
mo' tears. No, sir, none o' thet in mine.
'T wuz ony 'cause I wuz so low in my
min' I evah done it, onyhow. Now, I 'm
gwine ter be 's sober 's a owl ! "

Notwithstanding these and similar
protestations, hardly an hour was gone
before Demming was the glory of the
saloon, haranguing the crowd on his fa-
vorite topic, the Bishop's virtues. " High-
toned gen'leman, bes' man in the worT,
an' nobody's fool, neither. I 'm proud
to call him my frien', an' Aiken 's put
in its bes' licks w'en it cured him. Gen-
'lemen, he 'vised me ter fight shy o' you
all. I reckon as how I mought be bet-
ter off ef I 'd allus have follered his am-
monitions. Walk up, gen'lemen, an'
drink his health ! My 'xpens'."

The sequel to such toasts may readily
be imagined. By six o'clock, penniless

1884.]

The Bishop's Vagabond.

and tipsy, Deraming was apologizing to
the Bishop on the hotel piazza. He
had the grace to seem ashamed of him-
self. " Wust o' 't is flingin' away all
thet money ; but I felt kinder like mak-
in' everybody feel good, an' I set 'em
up. An' 't 'appened, somehow, they
wuz a right smart chance o' people in,
jes thet thar minit, — they gen'rally is
a right smart chance o' people in when
a feller sets 'em up ! an' they wuz
powerful dry, — they gen'rally is dry,
then ; an' the long an' short o' 't is, they
cleaned me out. An' now, Bishop, I jes
feel nashuated with myself. Suah 's yo'
bawn, Bishop, I 'm gwine ter reform.
' Stop short, an' nevah go on again,' like
th^t thar clock in the song. I am, fur
a fac', sir. I 'm repentin' to a s'prisin'
extent."

" I certainly should be surprised if
you were repentant," the Bishop said
dryly ; then, after a pause, " Well, Dem-
miug, I will help you this once again.
I will buy you a ticket to Charleston."

Some one had come up to the couple
unperceived ; this person spoke quickly :
" Please let me do that, Bishop. Dem-
ming has afforded me enough entertain-
ment for that."

" You don' think no gret shakes o'
me, do you, Gunnel ? " said Demming,
looking at Talboys half humorously, yet
with a shade of something else in his
expression. " You poke fun at me all the
time. Well, pleases you, an' don' hurt
me, I reckon. JMahnin', Bishop ; maim-
in', Gunnel. I '11 be at th' deppo."
He. waved his hand and shambled away.
Both men looked after him.

" I will see that he gets off," said Tal-
boys. " I leave Aiken, myself, in the
morning."

" Leave Aiken ? " the Bishop repeat-
ed. " But you will return ? "

" I don't expect to."

" Why, I am sorry to hear that, Mr.
Talboys, — truly sorry." The Bishop
took the young man's hand and pressed
it. " I am just beginning to know you ;

I may say, to like you, if you will per-
mit the expression. Won't you walk in
with me now, and say good-by to my
daughter ? "

" Thanks, very much, but I have al-
ready made my adieux to Miss Louise."

" Ah, yes, certainly," said the Bishop,
absently.

He was an absorbed clergyman ; but
he had sharp enough eyes, did he choose
to use them ; and Talboys' reddening
cheeks told him a great deal. It can-
not be said that he was sorry because
his daughter had not looked kindly on
this worldly and cynical young man's
affection ; but he was certainly sorry for
the young man himself, and his parting
grasp of the hand was warmer than it
would have been but for that fleeting
blush.

" Poor fellow, poor fellow ! " solilo-
quized the Bishop, when, after a few
cordial words, they had parted. " He
looks as though it had hurt him. I sup-
pose that is the way we all take it.
Well, time cures us : but it would scarce-
ly do to tell him that, or how much hard-
er it is to win a woman, find how pre-
cious she is, and then to lose her. Ah,
well, time helps even that. ' For the
strong years conquer us.' "

But he sighed as he went back to his
daughter, and he did not see the beauti-
ful Miss Reynolds when she bowed to
him, although she was smiling her sweet-
est and brightest smile.

Louise sat in her room. Its windows
opened upon the piazza, and she had
witnessed the interview. She did not
waver in her conviction that she had
done right. She could not wisely marry
a man whom she did not respect, let his
charm of manner and temper be what
it might. She needed a man who was
manly, who could rule other men ; be-
sides, how could she make up her mind
to walk through life with a husband
hardly above her shoulder ? Still, she
conceded to herself that, had Talboys
compelled one thrill of admiration from

The Bishop's Vagabond.

[January,

her by any mental or moral height, she
would not have caviled at his short stat-
ure. But there was something ridicu-
lous in the idea of Talboys thrilling
anybody. For one thing, he took every-
thing too lightly. Suddenly, with the
sharpness of a new sensation, she re-
membered that he had not seemed to
take the morning's episode lightly. Poor
Martin ! — for the first time, even in her
reveries, she called him by his Christian
name, — there was an uncomfortable
deal of feeling in his few words. Yet
he was considerate ; he made it as easy
as possible for her.

Martin was always considerate ; he
never jarred on her ; possibly, the mas-
ter mind might jar, being so masterful.
He was always kind, too ; continually
scattering pleasures about in his quiet
fashion. Such a quiet fashion it was
that few people noticed how persistent
was the kindness. Now a hundred in-
stances rushed to her mind. All at
once, recalling something, she blushed
hotly. That morning, just as Talboys
and she were turning from the place
where he had asked and she had an-
swered, she caught a glimpse of Dem-
ming's head through the leaves. He
had turned, also, and he made a feint of
passing them, as though he were but that
instant walking by. The action had. a
touch of delicacy in it ; a Northerner of
Demming's class would not^have shown
it. Louise felt grateful to the vaga-
bond ; at the same time, it was hardly
pleasant to know that he was as wise
as she in Talboys' heart affairs. As for
Talboys himself, he had not so much as
seen Demruing ; he had been too much
occupied with his own bitter thoughts.
Again Louise murmured, " Poor Mar-
tin ! " What was the need, though, that
her own heart should be like lead ? Al-
most impatiently, she rose and sought
her father.

The Bishop, after deliberation, had
decided to accompany Demming to
Charleston. He excused his interest in

the man so elaborately and plausibly
that his daughter was reminded of Tal-
boys.

Saturday morning all three — the
Bishop, the vagabond, and Talboys —
started for Charleston. Talboys, how-
ever, did not know that the Bishop was
going. He bought Demming's ticket,
saw him safely to a seat, and went into
the smoking-car. The Bishop was late,
but the conductor, with true Southern
good-nature, backed the train and took
him aboard. He seated himself in front
of Demming, and began to wipe his
heated brow.

" Why do they want to have a fire in
the stove this weather ? " said he.

" Well," said the cracker slyly, " you
see we hain't all been runnin', an' we 're
kinder chilly ! "

" Humph ! " said the Bishop. After
this there was silence. The train rolled
along ; through the pine woods, past
small stations where rose-trees brightened
trim white cottages, then into the swamp
lands, where the moisture painted the
bark of tall trees, and lay in shiny green
patches among them. The Southern
moss dripping from the giant branches
shrouded them in a weird drapery, soft
as mist. There was something dreary
and painful to a Northern eye, in the
scene ; the tall and shrouded trees, the
stagnant pools of water gleaming among
them, the vivid green patches of moss,
the barren stretches of sand. The very
beauty in it all seemed the unnatural
glory of decay, repelling the beholder.
Here and there were cabins. One could
not look at them without wondering
whether the inhabitants had the ague,
or its South Carolina synonym, the
" break-bone fever." At one, a bent old
woman was washing. She lifted her
head, and Demming waved his hat at
her. Then he glanced at the Bishop,
now busy with a paper, and chuckled
over some recollection. He looked out
again. There was a man running along
the side of the road waving a red flag.

1884.]

The Bishop's Vagabond.

He called out a few words, which the
wind of the tram tore to pieces. At the
same instant, the whistle of the engine
began a shrill outcry. " Sunthin' 's bust,
I reckon," said Demming. And theu,
before he could see, or know, or under-
stand, a tremendous crash drowned his
senses, and in one awful moment blend-
ed shivering glass and surging roof and
white faces like a horrible kaleidoscope.

The first thing he noticed, when he
came to himself, was a thin ribbon of
smoke. He watched it lazily, while it
melted into the blue sky, and another
ribbon took its place. But presently
the pain in his leg aroused him. He
perceived that the car was lying on one
side, making the other side into a roof,
and one open window was opposite his
eyes. At the other end ,the car was
hardly more than a mass of broken seats
and crushed sides, but it was almost in-
tact where he lay. He saw that the
stove had charred the wood-work near it ;
hence the smoke, which escaped through
a crack and floated above him. The
few people in the car were climbing out
of the windows as best they might. A
pair of grimy arms reached down to
Demming, and he heard the brakeman's
voice (he knew Jim Herndon, the
brakeman, well) shouting profanely for
the " next."

" Whar 's the Bishop ? " said Dem-
ming.

" Reckon he 's out," answered Jim.

" Mought as well come yo'self ! H !

you 've broke yo' leg ! "

" Pull away, jes the same. I don'
wanter stay yere an' roast ! "

The brakeman pulled him through
the window. Demming shut his teeth
hard ; only the fear of death could have
made him bear the agony every motion
gave him.

The brakeman drew him to one side
before he left him. Demming could see
the wreck plainly. A freight train had
been thrown from the track, and the pas-
senger train had run into it while going

at full speed. " The brakes would n't
work," Demming heard Jim say. Now
the sight was a sorry one : a heap of
rubbish which had been a freight car ;
the passenger engine sprawling on one
side, in the swamp, like a huge black
beetle ; and, near it, the two foremost
cars of its train overturned and shattered.
The people of both trains were gathered
about the wreck, helplessly talking, as
is the manner of people in an accident.
They were, most of them, on the other
side of the track. No one had been
killed ; but some were wounded, and
were stretched in a ghastly row on car
cushions. The few women and children
in the train were collected about the
wounded.

" Is the last man out ? " shouted the
conductor.

Jim answered, " Yes, all out — no,
d it ! I see a coat tail down here."

" Look at the fire ! " screamed a wo-
man. " Oh, God help him ! The car 's
afire ! "

" He 's gone up, whoever he is," mut-
tered Jim. " They ain't an axe nor
nuthin' on board, an' he's wedged in
fast. But come on, boys ! I '11 drop in
onct mo' ! "

" You go with him," another man
said. " Here, you fellows, I can run
fastest ; I '11 go to the cabin for an
axe. Some of you follow me for some
water ! "

Demming saw the speaker for an in-
stant, — an erect little figure in a foppish
gray suit, with a " cat's eye " gleaming
from his blue cravat. One instant he
stood on the piece of timber upon which
he had jumped ; the next he had flung
off his coat, and was speeding down the
road like a hare.

" D ef 't ain't the Cunnel," said

Demming.

" Come on ! " shouted Talboys, never
slackening his speed. " Hurry ! "

The men went. Demming, weak with
pain, was content to look across the
gap between the trains and watch those

The Bishop's Vagabond.

[January,

left behind. The smoke was growing
denser now, and tongues of flame shot
out between the joints of wood. They
said the man was at the other end.
Happily, the wind blew the fire from
him. Jim and two other men climbed in,
again. Demming could hear them swear-
ing and shouting. He looked anxiously
about, seeking a familiar figure which
he could not find. He thought it the
voice of his own fears, that cry from
within the car. " Good God, it 's the
Bishop ! " But immediately Jim thrust
his head out of the window, and called,
" The Bishop 's in hyar ! Under the cyar
seats ! He ain't hurt, but we cyant move
the infernal things ter get him out ! "

" Oh, Lordy ! " groaned the vaga-
bond ; " an' I 'm so broke up I cyant liff'
a han' ter help him ! "

In desperation, the men outside tried
to batter down the car walls with a
broken tree limb. Inside, they strained
feverishly at the heavy timbers. Vain
efforts all, at which the crackling flames,
crawling always nearer, seemed to mock.

Demming could hear the talk, the
pitying comments, the praise of the Bish-
op : " Such a good man ! " " His poor
daughter, the only child, and her mother
dead ! " " They were so fond of each
other, poor thing, poor thing ! " And a
soft voice added, " Let us pray ! "

" Prayin','' muttered Demming, " jes
like wimmen ! Laws, they don't know
no better. How '11 I git ter him ? "

He began to crawl to the car, drag-
ging his shattered leg behind him, reck-
less of the throbs of pain it sent through
his nerves. " Ef I kin ony stan' it till
I git ter him ! " he moaned. " Burnin'
alive 's harder nor this." He felt the hot
smoke on his face ; he heard the snap-
ping and roaring of the fire ; he saw the
men about the car pull out Jim and his
companions, and perceived that their
faces were blackened.

" It '11 cotch me, suah 's death ! " said
Demming between his teeth. " Well,
't ain't much raattah ! " Mustering all his

strength he pulled himself up to the car
window below that from which Jim had
just emerged. The crowd, occupied with
the helpless rescuers, had not observed
him before. They shouted at him as
one man : " Get down, it 's too late ! "

" You 're crazy, you ! " yelled Jim,

with an oath.

" Never you min'," Demming an-
swered coolly. " I know what I 'in 'bout,
I reckon."

He had taken his revolver from his
breast, and was searching through his
pockets. He soon pulled out what he
sought, merely a piece of stout twine ;
and the crowd saw him, sitting astride
the trucks, while he tied the string
about the handle of the weapon. Then
he leaned over the prison walls, and
looked down upon the Bishop. Under
the mass of wood and iron the Bishop
lay, unhurt but securely imprisoned ;
yet he had never advanced to the chan-
cel rails with a calmer face than that he
lifted to his friend.

" Demming," he cried, " you here !
Go back, I implore you ! You can't
save me."

" I know thet, Bishop," groaned the
cracker. " I ain't tryin' ter. But I

cyan't let you roast in this yere d

barbecue ! Look a yere ! " He low-
ered the revolver through the window.
" Thar 's a pistil, an' w'en th' fire cotches
onter you an' yo' gwine suah 's shootin',
then put it ter yo' head an' pull the
trigger, an' yo '11 be outen it all ! "

The Bishop's firm pale face grew paler
as he answered, " Don't tempt me,
Demming ! Whatever God sends I must
bear. I can't do it ! " Demming paused.
He looked steadily at the Bishop for a
second ; then he raised the revolver,
with a little quiver of his mouth. " And
go away, for God's sake, my poor
friend ! Bear my love to my dear, dear
daughter ; tell her that she has always
been a blessing and a joy to me. And
remember what I have said to you,
yourself. It will be worth dying for

1884.]

The Bishop's Vagabond.

if you will do that ; it will, indeed. It
is only a short pain, and then heaven !
Now go, Demniing. God bless and
keep you. Go ! "

But Demming did not move. " Don'
you want ter say a prayer, Bishop ? "
he said in a coaxing tone, — " jes a lit-
tle mite o' one fur you an' me ? Ye don'
need ter min' 'bout sayiu' 't loud. I '11
unnerstan' th' intention, an' feel jes so
edified. I will, fur a fac."

"Go, first, Demming. I am afraid
for you ! "

" I 'm a-gwine, Bishop," said Dem-
ming, in the same soft, coaxing tone.
" Don' min' me. I 'm all right." He
crouched down lower, so that the Bishop
could not see him, and the group below
saw him rest the muzzle of the pistol
on the window-sill and take -aim.

A gasp ran through the crowd, — that
catching of the breath in which over-
taxed feeling relieves itself. " He 's
doiu' the las' kindness he can to him,"
said the brakeman to the conductor,
" and by the Lord, he 's giv' his own
life to do it ! "

The flames had pierced the roof, and
streamed up to the sky. Through the
sickening, dull roar they heard the Bish-
op's voice again : —

" Demming, are you gone ? "

The cracker struck a loose piece of
wood, and sent it clattering down. " Yes,
Bishop, that wuz me. I 'm safe on th'
groun'. Good-by, Bishop. I do feel
'bleeged ter you ; an', Bishop, them chick-
ens wuz the fust time. They wuz, on
my houah. Now, Bishop, shet yo' eyes
an' pray, fur it 's a-comin ! "

The Bishop prayed. They could not
hear what he said, below. No one heard
save the uncouth being who clung to
the window, revolver in hand, steadily
dying the creeping red death. But they
knew that, out of sight, a man who
Aad smiled on them, full of life and
hope, but an hour ago was facing such
torture as had tried the martyr's cour-
age, and facing it with as high a faith.

With one accord men and women
bent their heads. Jim, the brakeman,
alone remained standing, his form erect,
his eyes fixed on the two iron lines that
made an angle away in the horizon.
" Come on ! " he yelled, leaping wildly
into the air. " Fo' the Lord's sake, hur-
ry ! D him, but he 's the bulliest

runner ! "

Then they all saw a man flying down
the track, axe in hand. He ran up to
the car side. He began to climb. A
dozen hands caught him. " You 're a
dead man if you get in there ! " was the
cry. " Don't you see it 's all afire ? "

" Try it from the outside, Colonel ! "
said the conductor.

" Don't you see I have n't time ? "
cried Talboys. " He '11 be dead before
we can get to him. Stand back, my
men, and, Jim, be ready to pull us both
out ! "

The steady tones and Talboys' busi-
ness-like air had an instantaneous effect.
The crowd were willing enough to be
led ; they fell back, and Talboys dropped
through the window. To those outside
the whole car seemed in a blaze, and
over them the smoke hung like a pall ;
but through the crackling and roaring
and the crash of falling timber came
the clear ring of axe blows, and Tal-
boys' voice shouting, " I say, my man,
don't lose heart 1 We 're bound to get
you out ! "

" Lordy, he don't know who 't is,"
said Demming. " Nobody could see
through that thar smoke ! "

All at once the uninjured side of the
car gave way beneath the flames, falling
in with an immense crash. The flame
leaped into the air.

" They 're gone ! " cried the conduc-
tor.

" No, they 're not ! " yelled Demming.
" He 's got him, safe an' soun' ! " And
as he spoke, scorched and covered with
dust, bleeding from a cut on his cheek
but holding the Bishop in his arms, Tal-
boys appeared at the window. Jim

The Bishop's Vagabond.

[January,

snatched the Bishop, the conductor
helped out Talboys, and half a dozen
hands laid hold of Demming. He heard
the wild cheer that greeted them ; he
heard another cheer for the men with the
water, just in sight ; but he heard no more,
for as they pulled him down a dozen
fiery pincers seemed tearing at his leg,
and he fainted dead away.

The Bishop's daughter sat in her
room, making a very pretty picture, with
her white hands clasped on her knee
and her soft eyes uplifted. She looked
sad enough to please a pre-Raphaelite
of sentiment. Yet her father, whom
this morning she would have declared
she loved better than any one in the
world, had just been saved from a fright-
ful death. She knew the story of his
deliverance. At last she felt that most
unexpected thrill of admiration for Tal-
boys ; but Talboys had vanished. He
was gone, it was all ended, and she
owned to herself that she was wretched.
Her father was with Demming and the
doctors. The poor vagabond must hob-
ble through life on one leg, hencefor-
ward. " If he lived," the doctor had
said, making even his existence as a
cripple problematic. Poor Demming,
who had flung away his life to save her
father from suffering, — a needless, use-
less sacrifice, as it proved, but touching
Louise the more because of its very
failure !

At this stage in her thoughts, she
heard Sam, the waiter, knocking softly,
outside. Her first question was about
Demming. " The operation 's ovah, miss,
an' Mr. Demming he 's sinkin'," an-
swered Sam, giving the sick man a title
he had never accorded him before, "an*
he axes if you'd be so kin' 's to step
in an' speak to him ; he 's powerful anx-
ious to see you."

Silently Louise rose and followed the
mulatto. They had carried Demming
to the hotel : it was the nearest place,
and the Bishop wished it. His wife had

been sent for, and was with him. Her
timid, tear-stained face was the first ob-
ject that met Louise's eye. She sat in
a rocking-chair close to the bed, and, by
sheer force of habit, was unconsciously
rocking to and fro, while she brushed the
tears from her eyes. Demming's white
face and tangle of iron-gray hair lay on
the pillow near her.

He smiled feebly, seeing Louise. She
did not know anything better to do than
to take his hand, the tears brightening
her soft eyes. " Laws," said Demming,
" don' do thet. I ain't wuth it. Look
a yere, I got sun'thin' ter say ter you.
An' you must n't min', 'cause I mean
well. You know 'bout — yes'day mahn-
in'. Mabbe you done what you done
not knowin' yo' own min', — laws, thet's
jes girls, — an' I wants you ter know
jes what kin' o' feller he is. You know
he saved yo' pa, but you don' know,
mabbe, thet he did n't know 't was the
Bishop till he 'd jump down in thet thar
flamin' pit o* hell, as 't were, an' fished
him out. He done it jes 'cause he 'd thet
pluck in him, an' — don' you go fer ter
chippin' in, Gunnel. I 'm a dyiri* man,
an' don' you forget it ! Thar he is, miss,
hidin' like behin' the bed."

Louise during this speech had grown
red to the roots of her hair. She looked
up into Talboys' face. He had stepped
forward. His usual composure had
quite left him, so that he made a pitiful
picture of embarrassment, not helped
by crumpled linen and a borrowed coat
a world too large for him. " It 's just
a whim of his," he whispered hurriedly ;
" he wanted me to stay. I did n't know
— I did n't understand ! For God's
sake, don't suppose I meant to take such
an advantage of the situation ! I am
going directly. I shall leave Aiken to-
night."

It was only the strain on her nerves,
but Louise felt the oddest desire to
laugh. The elegant Martin cut such a
very droll figure as a hero. Then her eye
fell on Demming's eager face, and a sud-

1884.]

The Bishop's Vagabond.

den revulsion of feeling, a sudden keen
realization of the tragedy that Martin
had averted, brought the tears back to
her eyes. Her beautiful head dropped.
" Why do you go — now ? " said she.

" Hev you uns made it up, yet?"
murmured Demming's faint voice.

"Yes," Talboys answered, "I think
we have, and — I thank you, Demming."
The vagabond waved his hand with a
feeble assumption of his familiar ges-
ture. " Yo' a square man, Gunnel. I
all us set a heap by you, though I did n't
let on. An' she 's a right peart young
lady. I'm glad yo' gwine ter be so
happy. Laws, I kind o' wish I wuz to
see it, even on a wooden leg " — The
woman at his side began to sob. " Thar,
thar, Alwynda, don' take on so ; cyan't
be helped. You urns' 'scuse her, gen'le-
men ; she so petted on me she jes cyan't
hole in ! "

" Demming," said the Bishop, " my
poor friend, the time is short ; is there
anything you want me to do ? " Dem-
ming's dull eyes sparkled with a glim-
mer of the old humor.

" Well, Bishop, ef you don' min', I 'd
like you ter conduc' the fun'al services.
Reckon they '11 be a genuwine co'pse
this yere time, fo' suah. An', Bishop,
you '11 kind o' look a'ter Alwynda ; see
she gets her coffee an' terbacco all right.
An' I wants ter 'sure you all again thet
them thar chickens wuz the fust an' ony
thing I evah laid ban's on t' want mine.
Thet 's the solemn truf ; ain't it, Alwyn-
da ? "

The poor woman could only rock
herself in the chair, and sob, " Yes, 't
is. An' he 's been a good husband to
me. I 've allus bed the bes' uv every-
thing ! Oh, Lordy, 'pears 's though I
cyan't bear it, nohow ! "

Louise put her hand gently on the
thin shoulder, saying, " I will see that
she never wants anything we can give,

Demming ; and we will try to comfort
her."

The cracker looked wistfully from
her fresh, young face to the worn face
below. " She wuz 's peart an' purty 's
you, miss, w'en I fust struck up with
'er," said he slowly. " Our little gal wuz
her very image. Alwynda," in a singu-
larly soft, almost diffident tone, " don'
take on so ; mabbe I 'm gwine fer ter
see 'er again. 'T won't do no harm ter
think so, onyhow," he added, with a
glance at Talboys, as though sure there
of comprehension.

Then the Bishop spoke, solemnly,
though with sympathy, urging the dying
man, whose worldly affairs were settled,
to repent of his sins and prepare for
eternity. " Shall I pray for you, Dem-
ming ? " he said in conclusion.

"Jes as you please, Bishop," an-
swered Demming, and he tried to wave
his hand. " I ain't noways partickler.
I reckon God a'mighty knows I 'd be
th' same ole Demming ef I could get up,
an' I don' mean ter make no purtenses.
But mabbe it '11 cheer up th' ole 'ooman
a bit. So you begin, an' I '11 bring in an
Amen whenever it 's wanted ! "

So .speaking, Demming closed his
eyes wearily, and the Bishop knelt by
the bedside. Talboys and Louise left
them, thus. After a while, the wife
stretched forth her toil-worn hand and
took her husband's. She thought she
was aware of a weak pressure. But
when the prayer ended there came no
Amen. Demming was gone where pray-
er may only faintly follow ; nor could
the Bishop ever decide how far. his vag-
abond had joined in his petitions. Such
doubts, however, did not prevent his
cherishing an assured hope that the
man who died for him was safe, for-
ever. The Bishop's theology, like that
of most of us, yielded, sometimes, to
the demands of the occasion.

Octave Thanet.

Ivan Turggneiff.

[January,

IVAN TURGENIEFF.

WHEN the mortal remains of Ivan
Turgeuieff were about to be transport-
ed from Paris for interment in his own
country, a short commemorative service
was held at the Gare du Nord. Ernest
Renan and Edinond About, standing be-
side the train in which his coffin had
been placed, bade farewell in the name
of the French people to the illustrious
stranger who for so many years had
been their honored and grateful guest.
M. Renan made a beautiful speech, and
M. About a very clever one, and each
of them characterized with ingenuity
the genius and the moral nature of
the most touching of writers, the most
lovable of men. " Turgenieff," said M.
Renan, "received by the mysterious
decree which marks out human voca-
tions the gift which is noble beyond all
others : he was born essentially imper-
sonal." The passage is so eloquent that
I shall repeat the whole of it : " His
conscience was not that of an individ-
ual to whom nature had been more or
less generous ; it was in some sort the
conscience of a people. Before he was
born he had lived for thousands of
years ; infinite successions of reveries
had amassed themselves in the bot-
tom of his heart. No man has been as
much as he the incarnation of a whole
race; generations of ancestors, lost in
the sleep of centuries, speechless, came
through him to life and utterance."

I quote these lines for the pleasure of
quoting them ; for while I see what M.
Renan means by calling Turgenieff im-
personal, it has been my wish to devote
to his delightful memory a few pages
written under the impression of his per-
sonal character. He seems to us imper-
sonal, because it is from his writings al-
most alone that we of English, French,
and German speech have derived our no-
tions— even yet, I fear, rather meagre

and erroneous — of the Russian people.
His genius for us is the Slav genius ;
his voice the voice of those vaguely im-
agined multitudes whom we think of
more and more to-day as waiting their
turn, in the arena of civilization, in the
gray expanses of the North. There is
much in his writings to encourage this
view, and it is certain that he interpreted
with wonderful vividness the tempera-
ment of his fellow-countrymen. Cosmop-
olite that he had become by the force of
circumstances, his roots had never been
loosened in his native soil. The igno-
rance with regard to Russia and the Rus-
sians which he found 'in abundance in
the rest of Europe — and not least in
the country he inhabited for ten years
before his death — had indeed the effect,
to a certain degree, to throw him back
upon the deep feelings that so many of
his companions were unable to share
with him, the memories of his early
years, the sense of wide Russian hori-
zons, the joy and pride of his mother-
tongue. In the collection of short pieces,
so deeply interesting, written during the
last few years of his life, and trans-
lated into German under the name of
Senilia, I find a passage — it is the last
in the little book — which illustrates per-
fectly this reversionary impulse : " In
days of doubt, in days of anxious thought
on the destiny of my native land, thou
alone art my support and my staff, O
great, powerful, Russian tongue, truthful
and free ! If it were not for thee, how
should man not despair at the sight of
what is going on at home ? But it is
inconceivable that such a language has
not been given to a great people." This
national, home-loving note pervades his
productions, though it is between the
lines, as it were, that we must listen for
it. None the less does it remain true
that he was a very definite individual.

1884.]

Ivan Turgenieff.

He was not a simple conduit or mouth-
piece ; the inspiration was his own as
well as the voice. He was a person,
in other words, of the most substantial
kind, and those who had the happiness
to know him have no difficulty to-day
in thinking of him as a detached and
responsible figure. This pleasure, for
the writer of these lines, was as great as
the pleasure of reading the admirable
tales into which he put such a world of
life and feeling ; it was perhaps even
greater, for it was not only with the
pen that nature had given Turgenieff
the power to express himself. He was
the richest, the most delightful, of talk-
ers, and his face, his person, his temper,
the thoroughness with which he had been
equipped for human intercourse, make
in the memory of his friends an image
which is completed, but not thrown into
the shade, by his literary distinction.
The whole image is touched with sad-
ness : partly because the element of mel-
ancholy in his nature was deep and con-
stant — readers of his novels have no
need to be told of that ; and partly be-
cause, during the last years of his life,
he had been condemned to suffer atro-
ciously. Intolerable pain had been his
portion for many months before he died ;
his end was not serene and propitious,
but dark and almost violent. But of
brightness, of the faculty of enjoyment,
he had also the large allowance usually
made to first-rate men, and he was a
singularly complete human being. I had
greatly admired his writings before I
had the fortune to make his acquaint-
ance, and this privilege, when it pre-
sented itself, was highly illuminating.
The man and the writer together occu-
pied from that moment a very high place
in my affections. Some time before
knowing him I committed to print cer-
tain reflections which his tales had led me
to make ; and I may perhaps, therefore,
without impropriety give them a supple-
ment which shall have a more vivifying
reference. It is almost irresistible to

attempt to say, from one's own point of
view, what manner of man he was.

It was in consequence of the article
I just mentioned that I found reason to
meet him, in Paris, where he was then
living, in 1875. I shall never forgot
the impression he made upon me at that
first mterview. I found him adorable ;
I could scarcely believe that he would
prove — that any man could prove —
on nearer acquaintance as delightful as
that. Nearer acquaintance only con-
firmed my hope, and he remained the
most approachable, the most practicable,
the least precarious, man of genius it
has been my fortune to meet. He was
so simple, so natural, so modest, so des-
titute of personal pretension and of
what is called the consciousness of pow-
ers, that one almost doubted at moments
whether he were a man of genius, after
all. Everything good and fruitful lay
near to him ; he was interested in every-
thing ; and he was absolutely without
that eagerness of self-reference which
sometimes accompanies great, and even
small, reputations. He had not a parti-
cle of vanity ; nothing whatever of the
air of having a part to play, or a repu-
tation to keep up. His humor exercised
itself as freely upon himself as upon
other subjects, and he told stories at his
own expense with a sweetness of hilar-
ity which made his peculiarities really
sacred in the eyes of a friend. I re-
member vividly the smile and tone of
voice with which he once repeated to
me a figurative epithet which Gustave
Flaubert (of whom he was extremely
fond) had applied to him — an epithet
intended to characterize a certain ex-
pansive softness, a comprehensive inde-
cision, which pervaded his nature, just
as it pervades so many of the characters
he has described. He enjoyed Flau-
bert's use of this term, good-natured-
ly opprobrious, more even than Flau-
bert himself, and recognized perfectly
the element of truth in it. He was
natural to an extraordinary degree ; I

Ivan Turgenieff.

[January,

do not think I have ever seen his match
in this respect, certainly not among peo-
ple who bear, as he did, at the same
time the stamp of the highest cultiva-
tion. Like all men of a large pattern,
he was composed of many different ele-
ments ; and what was always striking in
him was the mixture of simplicitytwith
the fruit of the most various observa-
tion. In the little article in which I
had attempted to express my admira-
tion for his works, I had been moved to
say of him that he had the aristocratic
temperament ; a remark which, in the
light of further knowledge, seemed to
me singularly inane. He was not sub-
ject to any definition of that sort, and to
say that he was democratic would be
(though his political ideal was a democ-
racy) to give an equally superficial ac-
count of him. He felt and understood
the opposite sides of life ; he was im-
aginative, humorous, ironical. He had
not in his mind a grain of prejudice as
large as the point of a needle, and peo-
ple (there are many) who think this a
defect would have missed it immensely
in Ivan Sergeievitch. Our Anglo-Sax-
on, Protestant, moralistic, conventional
standards were far away from him, and
he judged things with a freedom and
spontaneity in which I found a perpetual
refreshment. His sense of beauty, his
love of truth and right, were the foun-
dation of his nature ; but half the charm
of conversation with him was that one
breathed an air in which cant phrases
and arbitrary measurements simply
sounded ridiculous.

I may add that it was not because I
had written a laudatory article about his
books that he gave me a friendly wel-
come ; for in the first place my article
could have very little importance for
him, and in the second it had never been
either his habit or his hope to bask in
the light of criticism. Supremely mod-
est as he was, I think he attached no
great weight to what might happen to
be said about him ; for he felt that he

was destined to encounter a very small
amount of intelligent appreciation, es-
pecially in foreign countries. I never
heard him even allude to any judgment
which might have been passed upon his
productions in England. In France he
knew that he was read very moderately ;
the " demand " for his volumes was small,
and he had no illusions whatever on
the subject of his popularity. He had
heard with pleasure that several differ-
ent persons in the United States were
impatient for everything that might
come from his pen ; but I think he was
never convinced, as one or two of the
more zealous of these persons had en-
deavored to convince him, that he could
boast of a " public " in America. He
gave me the impression of thinking of
criticism as most serious workers think
of it — that it is the amusement, the
exercise, the subsistence, of the critic
(and, so far as this goes, of immense
use) ; but that, though it may often con-
cern other readers, it does not much
concern the artist himself. In compari-
son with all those things which the pro-
duction of a considered work forces the
artist little by little to say to himself,
the remarks of the critic are vague and
of the moment ; and yet, owing to the
large publicity of the proceeding, they
have a power to irritate or discourage
which is quite out of proportion to their
use to the person criticised. It was not,
moreover (ihisis a very frank allusion),
on account of any esteem which he ac-
corded to my own productions (I used
regularly to send them to him) that I
found him so agreeable, for to the best of
my belief he was unable to read them.
As regards one of the first that I had
offered him, he wrote me a little note,
to tell me that a distinguished friend,
who was his constant companion, had
read three or four chapters aloud to
him the evening before, and that one of
them was written de main de maitre !
This gave me great pleasure, but it was
my first and last pleasure of the kind.

1884.]

Ivan Turgenieff.

I continued, as I say, to send him iny
stories, because they were the only thing
I had to give ; but he never alluded to
the rest of the work in question, which
he evidently did not finish, and never
gave any sign of having read its succes-
sors. Presently I quite ceased to expect
this, and saw why it was (it interested
me much) that my writings could not
appeal to him. He cared, more than
anything else, for the air of reality, and
my reality was a good deal too thin. I
do not think my stories struck him as
quite meat for men. The manner was
more apparent than the matter ; they
were too tarabiscote, as I once heard
him say of the style of a book — had 011
the surface too many little flowers and
knots of ribbon. He had read a great
deal of English, and knew the language
remarkably well — too well, I used often
to think, for he liked to speak it with
those to whom it was native, and, suc-
cessful as the effort always was, it de-
prived him of the facility and raciness
with which he expressed himself in
French.

I have said that he had no preju-
dices : but perhaps after all he had one.
1 think he imagined it to be impossible
to a person of English speech to con-
verse in French with complete correct-
ness. He knew Shakespeare thorough-
ly, and at one time had wandered far
and wide in English literature. His
opportunities for speaking English were
not at all frequent, so that when the
necessity (or at least the occasion) pre-
sented itself he remembered the phrases
he had encountered in books. This
often gave a charming quaintness and
an unexpected literary turn to what he
said. " In Russia, in spring, if you en-
ter a beechen grove " — - those words
come back to me from the very last
time I saw him. He continued to read
English books, and was not incapable
of attacking the usual Tauchnitz novel.
The English writer (of our day) of
whom I remember to have heard him

speak with most admiration was Dick-
ens, of whose faults he was conscious,
but whose power of presenting to the
eye a vivid, definite figure he rated very
high. George Eliot he also greatly
admired. He had made her acquaint-
ance during the sorrowful winter of the
Franco-Prussian war, which he spent in
London, and I have heard her express
a high appreciation of his own genius.
In the young French school he was
much interested; I mean, in the new
votaries of realism, the grandsons of
Balzac. He was a good friend of most
of them, and with Gustave Flaubert,
the most singular and most original of
the group, he was altogether intimate.
He had his reservations and discrimina-
tions, and he had, above all, the great
back garden of his Slav imagination
and his Germanic culture, into which
the door constantly stood open, and into
which the grandsons of Balzac were not,
I think, particularly free to accompany
him. But he had much sympathy with
their experiment, their general move-
ment, and it was on the side of the care-
ful study of life as the best line of the
novelist that, as may easily be sup-
posed, he ranged himself. For some of
the manifestations of the opposite tra-
dition he had a great contempt. This
was a kind of emotion he rarely ex-
pressed, save in regard to certain public
wrongs and iniquities ; bitterness and
denunciation seldom passed his mild lips.
But I remember well the little flush of
conviction, the seriousness, with which
he once said, in allusion to a novel
which had just been running through
the Revue des Deux Mondes, " If I had
written anything so bad as that, I should
blush for it all my life."

His was not, I should say, predom-
inantly, or even in a high degree, the
artistic nature, though it was deeply, if
I may make the distinction, the poetic.
But during the last twelve years of his
life he lived much with artists and men
of letters, and he was eminently capable

Ivan Turgenieff.

[January,

of kindling in the glow of discussion.
He cared for questions of form, though
not in the degree in which Flaubert and
Edmond de Goncourt cared for them,
and he had very lively sympathies. He
had a great regard for Madame George
Sand, the head and front of the old ro-
mantic tradition ; but this was on gen-
eral grounds, quite independent of her
novels, which he never read, and which
she never expected him, or apparently
any one else, to read. He thought
her character remarkably noble and sin-
cere. His opinion of Victor Hugo could
not have been expressed in a few words,
but admiration, of course, was a con-
siderable part of it. I remember (on
Turgenieff's lips) a brilliant description
of Victor Hugo's transcendent state of
mind with regard to himself (Victor
Hugo), and as a corollary with regard to
others. If it was deliberate and dis-
criminating, it was also pictorial and
humorous. He had, as I have said, a
great affection for Gustave Flaubert,
who returned it ; and he was much in-
terested in Flaubert's extraordinary at-
tempts at refinement of form and irony
of matter, knowing perfectly well when
they failed. During those months which
it was Flaubert's habit to spend in Par-
is, Turgenieff went almost regularly to
see him on Sunday afternoons, and was
so good as to introduce me to the au-
thor of Madame Bovary, in whom I
saw many reasons for Turgenieff's re-
gard. It was on these Sundays, in.
Flaubert's little salon, which, at the
top of a house at the head of the Fau-
bourg Saint-Honore, looked rather bare
and provisional, that, in the company of
the other familiars of the spot, more
than one of whom l have commemorated
these occasions, Turgenieff's beautiful
faculty of talk showed at its best. He
was easy, natural, abundant, more than
I can describe, and everything that he
said was touched with the exquisite

1 Maxime Du Camp, Alphonse Daudet, Emile
Zola.

quality of his imagination. What was
discussed in that little smoke-clouded
room was chiefly questions of taste,
questions of art and form ; and the
speakers, for the most part, were in
aesthetic matters radicals of the deep-
est dye. It would have been late in the
day to propose among them any discus-
sion of the relation of art to morality,
any question as to the degree in which
a novel might or might not concern it-
self with the teaching of a lesson. They
had settled these preliminaries long ago,
and it would have been primitive and
incongruous to recur to them. The con-
viction that held them together was the
conviction that art and morality are two
perfectly different things, and that the
former has no more to do with the lat-
ter than it has with astronomy or em-
bryology. The only duty of a novel
was to be well written ; that merit in-
cluded every other of which it was ca-
pable. This state of mind was never
more apparent than one afternoon when
ces messieurs delivered themselves on
the subject of an incident which had
just befallen one of them. L'Assom-
moir of Emile Zola had been discontin-
ued in the journal through which it was
running as a serial, in consequence of
repeated protests from the subscribers.
The subscriber, as a type of human imbe-
cility, received a wonderful dressing, and
the Philistine in general was roughly
handled. There were gulfs of differ-
ence between Turgenieff and Zola, but
Turgenieff, who, as I say, understood
everything, understood Zola too, and
rendered perfect justice to the extraordi-
nary solidity of much of his work. His
attitude, at such times, was admirable,
and I could imagine nothing more gen-
ial or more fitted to give an idea of
light, easy human intelligence. No one
could desire more than he that art
should be art ; always, ever, incorrup-
tibly, art. To him this proposition
would have seemed as little in need of
proof, or susceptible of refutation, as the

1884.]

Ivan Turg£nieff.

axiom that law should always be law,
or medicine always medicine. As much
as any one he was prepared to take
note of the fact that the demand for ab-
dications and concessions never comes
from artists themselves, but always from
purchasers, editors, subscribers. I am
pretty sure that his word about all this
would have been that he could not quite
see what was meant by the talk about
novels being moral or the reverse ; that
a novel could no more propose to itself
to be moral than a painting or a sym-
phony, and that it was arbitrary to lay
down a distinction between such forms
of art. I suspect that he would have
said, in short, that distinctions were de-
manded in the interest of the moral-
ists, and that the demand was indelicate,
owing to their want of jurisdiction. It
was not for art to be moral, any more
than for chemistry ; it was for morality,
since it cared so much about the matter,
to be artful. Yet at the same time that
I make this suggestion as to Turgenieff's
state of mind, I remember how little he
struck me as bound by mere neatness
of formula, how little there was in him
of the partisan or the pleader. What
he thought of the relation of art to life,
his stories, after all, show better than
anything else. The immense variety of
life was ever present to his mind, and
he would never have argued the ques-
tion I have just hinted at, in the inter-
est of particular liberties — the liberties
that were apparently the dearest to his
French confreres. It was this air that
he carried about with him of feeling all
the variety of life, of knowing strange
and far-off things, of having an hori-
zon in which the Parisian horizon —
so familiar, so wanting in mystery, so
perpetually exploite — easily lost itself,
that distinguished him from these com-
panions. He was not all there, as the
phrase is ; he had something behind, in
reserve. It was Russia, of course, in a
large measure; and, especially before
the spectacle of what is going on there

to-day, that was a large quantity. But
so far as he was on the spot, he was an
element of pure sociability. He was
with everything that was said, and the
simplicity, naturalness, bonhomie, of his
talk made it as charming as it was just.
His contribution to every discussion al-
ways touched the essential part of it.

I did not intend to go into these de-
tails immediately, for I had only begun
to say what an impression of magnifi-
cent manhood he made upon me when
I first knew him. That impression, in-
deed, always remained with me, even
after it had been brought home to me
how much there was in him of the qual-
ity of genius. He was a beautiful in-
tellect, of course, but above all he was a
delightful, mild, masculine figure. The
combination of his deep, soft, lovable
spirit, in which one felt all the tender
parts of genius, with his immense, fair
Russian physique was one of the most
attractive things I have known. He had
a frame which would have made it per-
fectly lawful, and even becoming, for
him to be brutal ; but there was not a
grain of brutality in his composition.
He had always been a passionate sports-
man ; to wander in the woods or the
steppes, with his dog and gun, was the
pleasure of his heart. Late in life he
continued to shoot, and he had a friend
in Cambridgeshire for the sake of whose
partridges, which were famous, he used
sometimes to cross the Channel. It
would have been impossible to imagine
a better representation of a Nimrod of
the North. He was exceedingly tall,
and broad and robust in proportion.
His head was one of the finest, and
though the line of his features was ir-
regular there was a great deal of beauty
in his face. It was eminently of the-
Russian type, — almost everything in it
was wide. His expression had a sin-
gular sweetness, with a touch of Slav
languor, and his eye, the kindest of
eyes, was deep and melancholy. His
hair, abundant and straight, was as white

Ivan Turgenieff'.

[January,

as silver ; and his beard, which he wore
trimmed rather short, was of the color
of his hair. In all his tall person, which
was very striking wherever it appeared,
there was an air of neglected strength,
as if it had been a part of his modesty
never to remind himself that he was
strong. He used sometimes to blush
like a boy of sixteen. He had very few
forms and ceremonies, and almost as lit-
tle manner as was possible to a man of
his natural prestance. His noble ap-
pearance was in itself a manner ; but
whatever he did he did very simply, and
he had not the slightest pretension of
not being subject to rectification. I
never saw any one receive it with less
irritation. Friendly, candid, unaffected-
ly benignant, the impression that he
produced most strongly and most gener-
ally was, I think, simply that of good-
ness.

"When I made his acquaintance he
had been living, since his removal from
Baden-Baden, which took place in con-
sequence of the Franco-Prussian war,
in a large detached house on the hill of
Montmartre, with his friends of many
years. Madame Pauline Pierdot and her
husband, as his fellow-tenants. He oc-
cupied the upper floor, and I like to re-
call, for the sake of certain delightful
talks, the aspect of his little green sit-
ting-room, which has, in memory, the
consecration of irrecoverable hours. It
was almost entirely green, and the walls
were not covered with paper, but draped
in stuff. The portieres were green, and
there was one of those immense divans,
so indispensable to Russians, which had
apparently been fashioned for the great
person of the master, so that smaller
folk had to lie upon it rather than sit.
' I remember the white light of the Paris
street, which came in through windows
more or less blinded in their lower part,
like those of a studio. It rested, during
the first years that I went to see Turge-
nieff, upon several choice pictures of the
modern French school, especially upon

a very fine specimen of Theodore Rous-
seau, which he valued exceedingly. He
had a great love of painting, and was an
excellent critic of a picture. The last
time I saw him — it was at his house in
the country — he showed me half a dozen
large copies of Italian works, made by a
young Russian, in whom he was inter-
ested, which he had, with characteristic
Lindness, taken into his own apartments,
in order that he might bring them to the
knowledge of his friends. He thought
them, as copies, remarkable; and they
were so, indeed, especially when one per-
ceived that the original work of the ar-
tist had little value. Turgeniefi warmed
to the work of praising them, as he was
very apt to do ; like all men of imagina-
tion, he had frequent and zealous admi-
rations. As a matter of course, there
was almost always some young Russian
in whom he was interested, and refugees
and pilgrims of both sexes were his nat-
ural clients. I have heard it said, by
persons who had known him long and
well, that these enthusiasms sometimes
led him into error ; that in the French
phrase he was apt to se monter la tete on
behalf of his proteges. He was prone
to believe that he had discovered the
coming Russian genius ; he talked about
his discovery for a month, and then,
suddenly, one heard no more of it. I
remember his once telling me of a
young woman who had come to see him
on her return from America, where she
had been studying obstetrics at some
medical college, and who, without means
and without friends, was in want of
help and of work. He accidentally
learned that she had written something,
and asked her to let him see it. She
sent it to him, and it proved to be a tale
in which certain phases of rural life
were described with striking truthful-
ness. He perceived in the young lady a
great natural talent ; he sent her story
off to Russia to be printed, with the con-
viction that it would make a great im-
pression, and he expressed the hope of

1884.]

Ivan Turgenieff.

being able to introduce her to French
readers. When I mentioned this to an
old friend of Turgenieff, he smiled and
said that we should not hear of her
again; that Ivan Sergeievitch had al-
ready discovered a great many surprising
talents, who, as a general thing had not
borne the test. There was apparently
some truth in this, and Turgenieff 's lia-
bility to be deceived was too generous
a weakness for me to hesitate to allude
to it, even after I have insisted on the
usual certainty of his taste. He was
deeply interested in his young Russians ;
they were what interested him most in
the world. They were almost always
unhappy, in want, and in rebellion
against an order of things which he
himself detested. The study of the Rus-
sian character absorbed and fascinated
him, as all readers of his stories know.
Rich, unformed, undeveloped, with all
sorts of adumbrations, of qualities in a
state of fusion, it stretched itself out as
a mysterious expanse, in which it was
impossible as yet to perceive the rela-
tion between gifts and weaknesses. Of
its weaknesses he was keenly conscious,
and I once heard him express himself
with an energy that did him honor, and
a frankness that even surprised me (con-
sidering that it was of his countrymen
that he spoke), in regard to a weakness
which he deemed the greatest of all —
a weakness for which a man whose love
of the truth was his strongest feeling
would have least toleration. His young
compatriots, seeking their fortune in
. foreign lands, touched his imagination
and his pity, and it is easy to conceive
that under the circumstances the impres-
sion they often made upon him may
have had great intensity. The Parisian
background, with its brilliant sameness,
its absence of surprises (for those who
have known it long), threw them into
relief, and made him see them as he saw
the figures in his tales, in relations, in
situations, which brought them out.
There passed before him, in the course
VOL. LIII. — NO. 315. 4

of time, many wonderful Russian types.
Pie told me once of his having been vis-
ited by a religious sect. The sect con-
sisted of but two persons, one of whom
was the object of worship, and the other
the worshiper. The divinity, apparent-
ly, was traveling about Europe in com-
pany with his prophet. They were in-
tensely serious ; but it was very handy,
as the term is, for each. The god had
always his altar, and the altar had (im- >
like some altars) always its god.

On the first floor of the house in the
Rue de Douai was a gallery of pictures
(where later, I remember, one evening,
I saw him take part with delightful com-
icality in an extemporized charade),
into which, one of the first times I saw
him, he took me to look at a portrait
just painted of him by a Russian artist
working in Paris. This, perhaps, was
one of his premature admirations, for
the picture, though respectable, could
not long satisfy any one who carried
well in his eye the admirable head and
the deep physiognomy of the original ;
and I remember that in the Salon of
that year it produced little effect. To
paint Turgenieff at all properly would
have required a painter of style. I may
appear to gossip too much ; but it seems
to me that if with the more irresponsi-
ble method of the pen one attempts a
sketch of so interesting a man, every
trifle is of value as an item of resem-
blance. I will venture to say, then, that
in his personal arrangements there was
an almost exaggerated neatness, a love
of order which resulted sometimes in
angularity. In this little green salon
nothing was out of place ; there were
none of the odds and ends of the usual
man of letters, which indeed Turgenieff
was not ; and the case was the same in
his library at Bougival, of which I shall
presently speak. Few books, even,
were visible ; it was as if everything had
been put away. The traces of work had
been carefully removed. An air of great
comfort, an immeasurable divan,, and sev-

Ivan Turg£nieff.

[January,

eral valuable pictures — that was the ef-
fect of the place. I know not exactly
at what hours Turgenieff did his work ;
I think he had no regular times and
seasons, being in this respect as differ-
ent as possible from Anthony Trollope,
whose autobiography, with its extraor-
dinary record of fixed habits, I have
just been reading. It is my impression
that in Paris Turgenieff wrote little ; his
times of production being rather those
weeks of the summer that he spent at
Bougival, and the period of that visit
to Russia which he supposed himself to
make every year. I say " supposed
himself," because it was impossible to
see much of him without discovering
that he was a man of delays. As on
the part of some other Russians whom
I have known, there was something al-
most Asiatic in his faculty of procras-
tination. But even if one suffered from
it a little, one thought of it with kind-
ness, as a part of his general mildness
and want of rigidity. He went to Rus-
sia, at any rate, at intervals not infre-
quent, and he spoke of these visits as
his best time for production. He had
an estate far in the interior, and here,
amid the stillness of the country and
the scenes and figures which give such
a charm to the Memoirs of a Sports-
man, he drove his pen without inter-
ruption.

It is not out of place to allude to the
fact that he possessed considerable for-
•tune ; for such an accident in the life of
a man of letters has the highest impor-
tance. It had been of great value to
Turgenieff, and I think that much of the
:fine quality of his work is owing to it.
'He could write according to his taste
•and his mood ; he was never pressed nor
-cheeked (putting the Russian censorship
^side) by considerations foreign to his
•plan, and never was in danger of becom-
ing a hack. Indeed, taking into consid-
eration the absence of a pecuniary spur,
and that complicated indolence from
•which be was not exempt, his industry

is surprising, for his tales are very nu-
merous. In Paris, at all events, he was
always open to proposals for the mid-
day breakfast. He liked to breakfast
au cabaret, and freely consented to an ap-
pointment. It is not unkind to add that,
at first, he never kept it. I may men-
tion without reserve this idiosyncrasy
of Turgenieff's, because in the first place
it was so inveterate as to be very amus-
ing — it amused not only his friends,
but himself ; and in the second, he was
as sure to come in the end as he was
sure not to come in the beginning. After
the appointment had been made, or the
invitation accepted, when the occasion
was at hand, there arrived a note or a
telegram, in which Ivan Serge'ievitch ex-
cused himself, and begged that the meet-
ing might be deferred to another date,
which he usually himself proposed. For
this second date, still another was some-
times substituted ; but if I remember no
appointment that he exactly kept, I re-
member none that he completely missed.
His friends waited for him frequently,
but they never lost him. He was very
fond of that wonderful Parisian dejeuner
— fond of it, I mean, as a feast of rea-
son. He was extremely temperate, and
often ate no breakfast at all 4 but he
found it a good hour for talk, and little,
on general grounds, as one might be
prepared to agree with him, if he was
at the table one was speedily convinced.
I call it wonderful, the dejeuner of Paris,
on account of the assurance with which
it plants itself in the very middle of the
morning. It divides the day between
rising and dinner so unequally, and op-
poses such barriers of repletion to any
view of ulterior labors, that the unac-
climated stranger wonders when the fer-
tile French people do their work. Not
the least wonderful part of it is that the
stranger himself likes it, at last, and
manages to piece together his day with
the shattered fragments that survive. It
was not, at any rate, when one had the
good fortune to breakfast at twelve

1884.]

Ivan Turgenieff.

o'clock with Turgenieff that one was
struck with its being an inconvenient
hour. Any hour was convenient for
meeting a human being that conformed
so completely to one's idea of the best
that human nature is capable of. There
are places in Paris which I can think of
only in relation to some occasion on
which he was present, and when I pass
them the particular things I heard him
say there come back to me. There is a
cafe in the Avenue de 1'Opera — a new,
sumptuous establishment, with very deep
settees — on the right as you leave the
Boulevard, where I once had a talk with
him, over an order singularly " moder-
ate," which was prolonged far into the
afternoon, and in the course of which
he was extraordinarily suggestive and
interesting, so that my memory now re-
verts to all the circumstances with a ten-
derness that I cannot express. It evokes
the gniy damp of a Parisian December,
whicli made the dark interior of the cafe
look more and more rich and hospitable,
while the light faded, the lamps were
lit, the habitues came in to drink ab-
sinthe and play their afternoon game of
dominoes, and we still lingered over our
" breakfast." Turgenieff talked almost
exclusively about Russia, the Nihilists,
the remarkable figures that came to light
among them, the curious visits he re-
ceived, the dark prospects of his native
land. When he was in the vein, no man
could speak more to the imagination
of his auditor. For myself, at least,
at such times, there was something ex-
traordinarily vivifying and stimulating
in his talk, and I always left him in a
state of " intimate " excitement, with a
feeling that all sorts of valuable things
luul been suggested to me ; the condition
in which a man swings his cane as he
walks, leaps lightly over gutters, and
then stops, for no reason at all, to look
with an air of brightness into a shop-
window, where he sees nothing. . 1 re-
member another symposium at a restau-
rant on one of the corners of the littl?

place in front of the Opera Comique,
where we were four, including Ivan Ser-
ge'ievitch, and the two other guests were
also Russian, one of them uniting to the
charm of this nationality the merit of
a sex that makes the combination irre-
sistible. The establishment had been a
discovery of Turgenieff's — a discovery,
at least, as far .as our particular needs
were concerned — and I remember that
we hardly congratulated him on it. The
dinner, in a low entresol, was not what
it had been intended to be, but the talk
was better even than our expectations.
It was not about Nihilism, but about
some more agreeable features of life,
and I have no recollection of Turgenieff
in a mood more spontaneous and charm-
ing. One of our friends had, when he
spoke French, a peculiar way of sound-
ing the word adorable, which was fre-
quently on his lips, and I remember well
his expressive prolongation of the a
when, in speaking of the occasion after-
wards, he applied this term to Ivan
Serge'ievitch. I scarcely know, however,
why I should drop into the detail of
such reminiscences, and my excuse is
but the desire that we all have, when a
human relationship is closed, to save a
little of it from the past — to make a
mark which may stand for some of the
moments of it.

Nothing that Turgenieff had to say
could be more interesting than his talk
about his own work, his manner of writ-
ing. What I have heard him tell of these
things was worthy of the beautiful re-
sults he produced ; of the deep purpose,
pervading them all, to show us life it-
self. The germ of a story, with him,
was never an affair of plot — that was
the last thing he thought of ; it was the
representation of certain persons. The
first form in which a tale appeared to
him was as the figure of one individual
or a combination of individuals, whom
he wished to see in action, being sure
that such people must do something very
special and interesting. They stood be-

Ivan TurgSnieff.

[January,

fore him definite, vivid, and he wished
to know, and to show, as much as pos-
sible of their nature. The first thing
was to make clear to himself what he
did know, to begin with ; and to this end,
he wrote out a sort of biography of each
of his characters and everything that
they had done and that had happened to
them, up to the opening of the story.
He had their dossier, as the French say,
and as the police has of that of every
conspicuous criminal. With this mate-
rial in his hand he was able to proceed ;
the story all lay in the question, What
shall I make them do ? He always made
them do things that showed them com-
pletely ; but, as he said, the defect of
his manner and the reproach that was
made him was his want of " architec-
ture " — in other words, of composition.
The great thing, of course, is to have
architecture as well as precious material,
as Walter Scott had them, as Balzac
had them. If one reads Turgenieff's
stories with the knowledge that they
were composed — or rather that they
came into being — in this way, one can
trace the process in every line. Story,
in the conventional sense of the word, —
a fable constructed, like Wordsworth's
phantom, " to startle and waylay," —
there is as little as possible. The thing
consists of the motions of a group of
selected creatures, which are not the re-
sult of a preconceived action, but a con-
sequence of the qualities of the actors.
Works of art are produced from every
possible point of view, and stories, and
very good ones, will continue to be writ-
ten in order to illustrate a plot. Such
stories will always, probably, find most
favor with many readers, because they
remind them enough, without reminding
them too much, of life. On this opposi-
tion many young talents, in France, are
ready to rend each other, for there is a
numerous school on either side. We
have not yet, in England and America,
arrived at the point of treating such
questions with passion, for we have not

yet arrived at the point of feeling them
intensely, or indeed, for that matter, of
understanding them very well. It is not
open to us, as yet, to discuss whether a
novel had better be an excision from life,
or a structure built up of picture-cards,
for we have not made up our mind as
to whether life in general may be de-
scribed. Among us, therefore, even a
certain ridicule attaches to the consid-
eration of such alternatives. But indi-
viduals may feel their way, and perhaps
even pass unchallenged if they remark
that for them the manner in which
Turgenieff worked will always seem the
most fruitful. It has the immense rec-
ommendation that in relation to any hu-
man occurrence it begins, as it were,
further back. It lies in its power to tell
us the most about men and women. Of
course it will but slenderly satisfy those
numerous readers among whom the an-
swer to this would be, " Hang it, we
don't care a straw about men and wo-
men : we want a good story ! "

And yet, after all, Elena is a good
story, and A Nest of Noblemen and Vir-
gin Soil are good stories. Reading over
lately several of Turgenieff's novels and
tales, I was struck afresh with their
combination of beauty and reality. One
must never forget, in speaking of him,
that he was both an observer and a
poet. The poetic element was constant,
and it had great strangeness and power.
It inspired most of the short things that
he wrote during the last few years of
his life, since the publication of Virgin
Soil, and which are in the highest de-
gree fanciful and exotic. It pervades
the frequent little reveries, visions, epi-
grams, of the Senilia. It was no part
of my intention, here, to criticise his
writings, having said my say about them,
so far as possible, some years ago. But
I may mention that in re-reading them
I find in them all that I formerly found
of two other elements — their depth
and their sadness. They give one the
impression .of life itself, and not of an

1884.]

Ivan TurgSnieff.

arrangement, a rechauffe of life. I
remember Turgenieff's once saying in
regard to Homais, the little Norman
country apothecary, with his pedantry
of " enlightened opinions," in Madame
Bovary, that the great strength of such
a portrait consisted in its being at once
an individual, of the most concrete sort,
and a type. This is the great strength
of his own representations of character ;
they are so strangely, fascinatingly par-
ticular, and yet they are so recognizably
general. Such a remark as that about
Homais makes me wonder why it was
that Turgenieff should have rated Dick-
ens so high, the weakness of Dickens
being in regard to just that point. If
Dickens fails to live long, it will be be-
cause his figures are particular without
being general ; because they are individ-
uals without being types ; because we
do not feel their continuity with the
rest of humanity — see the matching of
the pattern with the piece out of which
all the creations of the novelist and the
dramatist are cut. I often meant, but
accidentally neglected, to put Turgenieff
on the subject of Dickens again, and ask
him to explain his opinion. I suspect
that his opinion was in a large measure
merely that Dickens entertained him, as
well he might. That curiosity of the
pattern was in itself fascinating.

I have mentioned Flaubert, and I will
return to him simply to say that there
was something very touching to me in
the nature of the friendship that united
these two men. It is much to the honor
of Flaubert, to my sense, that he appre-
ciated Ivan Turgenieff. There was a
partial similarity between them. Both
were tall, massive men, though the Rus-
sian reached to a greater height than
the Norman ; both were completely hon-
est and sincere, and both had in their
composition the element of irony and
sadness. Each had a tender regard for
the other, and I think that I am nei-
ther incorrect nor indiscreet in saying
•that on Turgenieffs part this regard had

in it a strain of compassion. There was
something in Gustave Flaubert that ap-
pealed to such a feeling. He had failed,
on the whole, more than he had succeed-
ed, and the great machinery of erudi-
tion and labor which he brought to bear
upon his productions was not accompa-
nied with proportionate results. He had
talent without having cleverness, and
imagination without having fancy. His
effort was heroic, but except in the case
of Madame Bovary, a masterpiece, he
imparted something to his works which
sunk them rather than floated them.
He had a passion for perfection of form
and for a certain splendid suggestive-
ness of style. He wished to produce per-
fect phrases, perfectly interrelated, and
as closely woven together as a suit of
chain-mail. He looked at life altogeth-
er as an artist, and took his work with
a seriousness that never belied itself.
To write an admirable page — and his
idea of what constituted an admirable
page was transcendent — seemed to him
something to live for. He tried it again
and again, and he came very near
it ; more than once he touched it, for
Madame Bovary surely will live. But
there was something unfruitful in his
genius. He was cold, and he would have
given everything he had to be able to
glow. There is nothing in his novels
like the passion of Elena for Inssaroff,
like the purity of Lisa, like the anguish
of the parents of Bazaroff, like the hid-
den wound of Tatiana ; and yet Fl.m-
bert yearned, with all the accumulations
of his vocabulary, to touch the chord
of pathos. There were some parts of
his mind that did not " give." as the
French say, that did not render a sound.
He had had too much of some sorts of
experience, and not enough of others.
And yet this local dumbness, as I may
call it, inspired those who knew him
with a kindness. If Flaubert was pow-
erful and limited, there is something
impressive in a strong man who has not
been able completely to express himself.

Ivan Turgenieff.

[January,

After the first year of ray acquaint-
ance with Turgenieff, I saw him much
less often. I was seldom in Paris, and
sometimes when I was there he was
absent. But I neglected no opportunity
of seeing him, and fortune frequently
favored me. He came two or three
times to London, for visits provokingly
brief. He went to shoot in Cambridge-
shire, and he passed through town in
arriving and departing. He liked the
English, but I am not sure that he liked
London, where he had passed a lugu-
brious winter in 1870-71. I remem-
ber some of his impressions of that pe-
riod, especially a visit that he had paid
to a " bishopess " surrounded by her
daughters, and a description of the cook-
ery at the lodgings which he occupied.
After 1876 I frequently saw him as an
invalid. He was tormented by gout,
and sometimes terribly besieged ; but
his account of what he suffered was as
charming — I can apply no other word
to it — as his description of everything
else. He had so the habit of observa-
tion that he perceived in excruciating
sensations all sorts of curious images
and analogies, and analyzed them to an
extraordinary fineness. Several times
I found him at Bougival, above the
Seine, in a very spacious and handsome
chalet — a little uncunned, it is true —
which he had built alongside of the
villa occupied by the family to which,
for years, his life had been devoted.
The place is delightful ; the two houses
are midway up a long slope, which de-
scends, with the softest inclination, to
the river, and behind them the hill rises
to a wooded crest. On the left, in the
distance, high up, and above an horizon
of woods, stretches the romantic aque-
duct of Marly. It is a very pretty do-
main. The last time I saw him, in No-
vember, 1882, it was at Bougival. He
had been very ill, with strange, intoler-
able symptoms, but he was better, and
he had good hopes. They were not
justified by the event. He got worse

again, and the months that followed
were cruel. His beautiful, serene mind
should not have been darkened and made
acquainted with violence ; it should have
been able to the last to take part, as it
had always done, in the decrees and
mysteries of fate. At the moment I saw
him, however, he was, as they say in
London, in very good form, and my last
impression of him was almost bright.
He was to drive into Paris, not being
able to bear the railway, and he gave
me a seat in the carriage. For an hour
and a half he constantly talked, and
never better. When we got into the city
I alighted on the Boulevard exterieur,
as we were to go in different directions.
I bade him good-by at the carriage win-
dow, and never saw him again. There
was a kind of fair going on, near by, in
the chill November air, beneath the de-
nuded little trees of the Boulevard, and
a Punch and Judy show, from which
nasal sounds proceeded. I almost regret
having accidentally to mix up so much
of Paris with this, perhaps too compla-
cent, enumeration of occasions, for the
effect of it may be to suggest that Ivan
Serge'ievitch had been gallicized. But
this was not the case ; no sojourner in
Paris was less French than he. Paris
touched him at many points, but it let
him alono at many others, and he had
with that great tradition of ventilation
of the Russian mind windows open into
distances which stretched far beyond the
banlieue. I have spoken of him from
the limited point of view of my own ac-
quaintance with him, and unfortunately
left myself little space to allude to a
matter which filled his existence a good
deal more than the consideration of how
a story should be written — his hopes
and fears on behalf of his native land.
He wrote fictions and dramas, but the
great drama of his life was the struggle
for a better state of things in Russia.
In this drama he played a distinguished
part, and the splendid obsequies that,
simple and modest as he was, have un-

1884.] Lepage's Joan of Are. 55

folded themselves over his grave, suf- procity, into the majestic position of a

ficiently attest the recognition of it by national glory. And yet it is in the pres-

his countrymen. His funeral, restrict- ence of this obstacle to social contact

ed and officialized, was none the less that those who knew and loved him

a magnificent " manifestation." I have must address their farewell to him now.

read the accounts of it, however, with a After all, it is difficult to see how the

kind of chill, a feeling in which assent obstacle can be removed. He was the

to the honors paid him bore less part most generous, the most tender, the

than it ought. All this pomp and cere- most delightful, of men ; his large nature

mony seemed to lift him out of the range overflowed with the love of justice ; but

of familiar recollection, of valued reel- he was also a rare genius.

Henry James.

LEPAGE'S JOAN OF ARC.

ONCE, it may be, the soft gray skies were dear,
The clouds above in crowds, like sheep below,
The bending of each kindly wrinkled tree ;
Or blossoms at the birth-time of the year,
Or lambs unweaned, or water in still flow,

In whose brown glass a girl her face might see.

Such days are gone, and strange things come instead ;
For she has looked on other faces white,

Pale bloom of fear, before war's whirlwind blown ;
Has stooped, ah Heaven ! in some low sheltering shed
To tend dark wounds, the leaping arrow's bite,

While the cold death that hovered seemed her own.

And in her hurt heart, o'er some grizzled head,
The mother that shall never be has yearned ;

And love's fine voice, she else shall never hear,
Came to her as the call of saints long dead ;
And straightway all the passion in her burned,
One altar-flame, that hourly waxes clear.

Hence goes she ever in a glimmering dream,
And very oft will sudden stand at gaze,

With blue, dim eyes that still not seem to see:
For now the well-known ways with visions teem ;
Unfelt is toil, and summer one green daze,

Till that the king be crowned, and France be free !

Helen Gray Cone.

A Roman Singer.

[January,

A ROMAN SINGER.

XIII.

I WENT to Palestrina because all for-
eigners go there, and are to be heai'd of
from other parts of the mountains in
that place. It was a long and tiresome
journey ; the jolting stagecoach shook
me very much. There- was a stout wo-
man inside, with a baby that squealed ;
there was a very dirty old country cu-
rate, who looked as though he had not
shaved for a week, or changed his col-
lar for a month. But he talked intelli-
gently, though he talked too much, and
he helped to pass the time until I was
weary of him. We jolted along over
the dusty roads, and were at least thank-
ful that it was not yet hot.

In the evening we reached Palestrina,
and stopped before the inn in the mar-
ket-place, as tired and dusty as might
be. The woman went one way, and
the priest the other, and I was left alone.
I soon found the fat old host, and en-
gaged a room for the night. He was
talkative and curious, and sat by my side
when he had prepared my supper in the
dingy dining-room down-stairs. 1 felt
quite sure that he would be able to tell
me what I wanted, or at least to give
me a hint from hearsay. But he at
once began to talk of last year, and
how much better his business had been
then than it was now, as country land-
lords invariably do.

It was to no purpose that I questioned
him about the people that had passed
during the fortnight, the month, the two
months, back ; it was clear that no one
of the importance of my friends had
been heard of. At last I was tired, and
he lit a wax candle, which he would
carefully charge in the bill afterwards,
at double its natural price, and he
showed me the way to my room. It
was a very decent little room, with

white curtains and a good bed and a
table, — everything I could desire. A
storm had come up since I had been at
my supper, and it seemed a comfortable
thing to go to bed, although I was dis-
appointed at having got no news.

But when I had blown out my candle,
determining to expostulate with the
host in the morning, if he attempted to
make me pay for a whole one, I lay
thinking of what I should do ; and turn-
ing on my side, I observed that a narrow
crack of the door admitted rays of light
into the darkness of my chamber. Now
I am very sensitive to draughts and in-
clined to take cold, and the idea that
there was a door open troubled me, so
that at last I made up my mind to get
up and close it. As I rose to my feet, I
perceived that it was not the door by
which I had entered ; and so, before
shutting it, I called out, supposing there
might be some one in the next room.

" Excuse me," I said loudly, " I will
shut this door." But there was no reply.

Curiosity is perhaps a vice, but it is
a natural one. Instead of pulling the
door to its place, I pushed it a little,
knocking with my knuckles at the same
time. But as no one answered, I pushed
it further, and put in my head. It was
a disagreeable thing I saw.

The room was like mine in every way,
save that the bed was moved to the
middle of the open space, and there
were two candles on two tables. On
the bed lay a dead man. I felt what we
call a brivido, — a shiver like an ague.

It was the body of an old man, with
a face like yellow wax, and a singularly
unpleasant expression even in death.
His emaciated hands were crossed on Ma
breast, and held a small black crucifix.
The candles stood, one at the head and
one at the foot, on little tables. I en-
tered the room and looked long at the

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

dead old man. I thought it strange that
there should be no one to watch him,
but I am not afraid of dead men, after
the first shudder is past. It was a
ghastly sight enough, however, and the
candles shed a glaring, yellowish light
over it all.

" Poor wretch," I said to myself, and
went back to my room, closing the door
carefully behind me.

At first I thought of rousing the host,
and explaining to him my objections to
being left almost in the same room with
a corpse. But I reflected that it would
be foolish to seem afraid of it, when I
was really not at all timid, and so I
went to bed, and slept until dawn. But
when I went down -stairs I found the
innkeeper, and gave him a piece of my
mind.

" What sort of an inn do you keep ?
What manners are these ?" I cried an-
grily. " What diavolo put into your
pumpkin head to give me a sepulchre
for a room ? "

He seemed much disturbed at what I
said, and broke out into a thousand apol-
ogies. But I was not to be so easily
pacified.

" Do you think," I demanded, " that
I will* ever come here again, or advise
any of my friends to come here ? It is
insufferable. I will write to the po-
lice " — But at this he began to shed
tears and to wring his hands, saying it
was not his fault.

" You see, signore, it was my wife
who made me arrange it so. Oh ! these
women — the devil has made them all !
It was her father — the old dead man
you saw. He died yesterday morning,
— may he rest ! — and we will bury him
to-day. You see every one knows that
unless a dead man is watched by some
one from another town his soul will not
rest in peace. My wife's father was a
jettatore ; he had the evil eye, and peo-
ple knew it for miles around, so I could
not persuade any one from the other vil-
lages to sit by him and watch his body,

though I sent everywhere all day yes-
terday. At last that wife of mine —
maledictions on her folly ! — said, ' It is
my father, after all, and his soul must
rest, at any price. If you put a traveler
in the next room, and leave the door
open, it will be the same thing ; and so
he will be in peace.' That is the way
it happened, signore," he continued, af-
ter wiping away his tears ; " you see I
could not help it at all. But if you will
overlook it, I will not make any charges
for your stay. My wife shall pay me.
She has poultry by the hundred. I will
pay myself with her chickens."

" Very good," said I, well pleased at
having got so cheap a lodging. " But I
am a just man, and I will pay for what
I have eaten and drunk, and you can
take the night's lodging out of your
wife's chickens, as you say." So we
were both satisfied.1

The storm of the night had passed
away, leaving everything wet and the
air cool and fresh. I wrapped my cloak
about me, and went into the market-
place, to see if I could pick up any
news. It was already late, for the
country, and there were few people
about. Here and there, in the streets,
a wine-cart was halting on its way to
Rome, while the rough carter went
through the usual arrangement of ex-
changing some of his employer's wine
for food for himself, filling up the barrel
with good pure water, that never hurt
any one. I wandered about, though I
could not expect to see any face that I
knew ; it is so many years since I lived
at Serveti, that even were the carters
from my old place, I should have forgot-
ten how they looked. Suddenly, at the
corner of a dirty street, where there was
a little blue and white shrine to the Ma-
donna, I stumbled against a burly fellow
with a gray beard, carrying a bit of salt
codfish in one hand and a cake of corn
bread in the other, eating as he went.

1 This incident actually occurred, precisely as
related. -F.M.C.

A Roman Singer.

[January,

" Gigi ! " I cried in delight, when I
recognized the old carrettiere who used
to bring me grapes and wine, and still
does when the fancy takes him.

" Dio mio ! Signer Conte ! " he
cried with his mouth full, and holding
up the bread and fish with his two
hands, in astonishment. When he re-
covered himself, he instantly offered to
share his meal with me, as the poorest
wretch in Italy will offer his crust to
the greatest prince, out of politeness.
" Vuol favorire ? " he said, smiling.

I thanked him and declined, as you
may imagine. Then I asked him how
he came to be in Palestrina ; and he told
me that he was often there in the winter,
as his sister had married a vinedresser of
the place, of whom he bought wine oc-
casionally. Very well-to-do people, he
explained eagerly, proud of his pros-
perous relations.

We clambered along through the
rough street together, and I asked him
what was the news from Serveti and
from that part of the country, well
knowing that if he had heard of any
rich foreigners in that neighborhood he
would at once tell me of it. But I had
not much hope. He talked about the
prospects of the vines, and such things,
for some time, and I listened patiently.

" By the bye," he said at last, " there
is a gran signore who is gone to live in
Fillettirio, — a crazy man, they say,
with a beautiful daughter, but really
beautiful, as an angel."

I was so much surprised that I made
a loud exclamation.

" What is the matter ? " asked Gigi.

" It is nothing, Gigi," I answered,
for I was afraid lest he should betray
my secret, if I let him guess it. " It
is nothing. I struck my foot against
a stone. But you were telling about a
foreigner who is gone to live somewhere.
Fillettino ? Where is that ? "

" Oh, the place of the diavolo ! I do
not wonder you do not know, conte,
for gentlemen never go there. It is in

the Abruzzi, beyond Trevi. Did you
ever hear of the Serra di Sant' Antonio,
where so many people have been
killed ? "

" Diana ! I should think so ! In the
old days " —

" Bene," said Gigi, " Fillettino is
there, at the beginning of the pass."

" Tell me, Gigi mio," I said, " are
you not very thirsty ? " The way to
the heart of the wine carter lies through
a pint measure. Gigi was thirsty, as I
supposed, and we sat down in the porch
of my inn, and the host brought a stoup
of his best wine and set it before us.

" I would like to hear about the crazy
foreigner who is gone to live in the hills
among the briganti," I said, when he
had wet his throat.

u What I know I will tell you. Sig-
nor Conte," he answered, filling his
pipe with bits that he broke off a cigar.
" But I know very little. He must be
a foreigner, because he goes to such a
place ; and he is certainly crazy, for he
shuts his daughter in the old castle, and
watches her as though she was made of
wax, like the flowers you have in Rome
under glass."

" How long have they been there,
these queer folks ? " I asked.

" What do I know ? It may be a
month or two. A man told me, who
had come that way from Fucino, and
that is all I know."

" Do people often travel that way,
Gigi?"

" Not often, indeed," he answered,
with a grin. " They are not very civil,
the people of those parts." Gigi made
a gesture, or a series of gestures. He
put up his hands as though firing a gun.
Then he opened his right hand and
closed it, with a kind of insinuating
twirl of the lingers, which means " to
steal." Lastly he put his hand over his
eyes, and looked through his fingers as
though they were bars, which means
" prison." From this I inferred that
the inhabitants of Fillettino were ad-

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

dieted to murder, robbery, and other
pastimes, for which they sometimes got
into trouble. The place he spoke of
is about thirty miles, or something more,
from Palestrina, and I began planning
how I should get there as cheaply as
possible. I had never been there, and
wondered what kind of a habitation the
count had found; for I knew it must
be the roughest sort of mountain town,
with some dilapidated castle, or other,
overhanging it. But the count was rich,
and he had doubtless made himself very
comfortable. I sat in silence, while Gigi
finished his wine, and chatted about his
affairs between the whiffs of his pipe.

" Gigi," I said at last, " I want to
buy a donkey."

" Eh, your excellency can be accom-
modated; and a saddle, too, if you
wish."

" I think I could ride without a sad-
dle," I said, for I thought it a needless
piece of extravagance.

" Madonna mia ! " he cried. " The
Signor Conte ride bareback on a don-
key ! They would laugh at you. But
my brother-in-law can sell you a beast
this very day, and for a mere song."

" Let us go and see the beast," I said.
I felt a little ashamed of having wished
to ride without a saddle. But as I had
sold all I had, I wanted to make the
money last as long as possible ; or at
least I would spend as little as I could,
and take something back, if I ever went
home at all. We had not far to go, and
Gigi opened a door in the street, and
showed me a stable, in which something
moved in the darkness. Presently he
led out an animal and began to descant
upon its merits.

" Did you ever see a more beautiful
donkey ? " asked Gigi admiringly. " It
looks like a horse ! " It was a little
ass, with sad eyes, and ears as long as
its tail. It was also very thin, and had
the hair rubbed off its back from carry-
ing burdens. But it had no sore places,
and did not seem lame.

" He is full of fire," said Gigi, poking
the donkey in the ribs to excite a show
of animation. " You should see him
gallop up hill with my brother on his
back, and a good load into the bargain.
Brrrr ! Stand still, will you ! " he
cried, holding tight by the halter, though
the animal did not seem anxious to run
away.

" And then," said Gigi, " he eats
nothing, — positively nothing."

" He does not look as though he had
eaten much of late," I said.

" Oh, my brother-in-law is as good to
him as though he were a Christian. He
gives him corn bread and fish, just like
his own children. But this ass prefers
straw."

" A frugal ass," I said, and we began
to bargain. I will not tell you what I
gave Gigi's brother-in-law for the beast,
because you would laugh. And I bought
an old saddle, too. It was really neces-
sary, but it was a dear bargain, though
it was cheaper than hiring; for I sold
the donkey and the saddle again, and
got back something.

It is a wild country enough that lies be-
hind the mountains towards the sources
of the Aniene, — the river that makes
the falls at Tivoli. You could not half
understand how in these times, under the
new government, and almost within a
long day's ride from Rome, such things
could take place as I am about to tell
you of, unless I explained to you how
very primitive that country is which
lies to the southeast of the capital, and
which we generally call the Abruzzi.
The district is wholly mountainous, and
though there are no very great eleva-
tions there are very ragged gorges and
steep precipices, and now and then an
inaccessible bit of forest far up among
the rocks, which no man has ever thought
of cutting down. It would be quite im-
possible to remove the timber. The peo-
ple are mostly shepherds in the higher
regions, where there are no vines, and
when opportunity offers they will way-

A Roman Singer.

[January,

lay the unwary traveler and rob him,
and even murder him, without thinking
very much about it. In the old days,
the boundary between the Papal States
and the kingdom of Naples ran through
these mountains, and the contrabban-
dieri — the smugglers of all sorts of
wares — used to cross from one domin-
ion to the other by circuitous paths and
steep ways of which only a few had
knowledge. The better known of these
passes were defended by soldiers and
police, but there have been bloody fights
fought, within a few years, between the
law and its breakers. Foreigners never
penetrate into the recesses of these hills,
and even the English guide-books, which
are said to contain an account of every-
thing that the Buon Dio ever made,
compiled from notes taken at the time
of the creation, make no mention of
places which surpass in beauty all the
rest of Italy put together.

No railroad or other modern innova-
tion penetrates into those Arcadian re-
gions, where the goatherd plays upon
his pipe all the day long, the picture of
peace and innocence, or prowls in the
passes with a murderous long gun, if
there are foreigners in the air. The
women toil at carrying their scant supply
of drinking-water from great distances
during a part of the day, and in the
evening they spin industriously by their
firesides or upon their doorsteps, as the
season will have it. It is an old life,
the same to-day as a thousand years ago,
and perhaps as it will be a thousand
years hence. The men are great trav-
elers, and go to Rome in the winter to
sell their cheese, or to milk a flock of
goats in the street at daybreak, selling
the foaming canful for a sou. But their
visits to the city do not civilize them ;
the outing only broadens the horizon of
their views in regard to foreigners, and
makes them more ambitious to secure
one, and see what he is like, and cut off
his ears, and get his money. Do not
suppose that the shepherd of the Abruzzi

lies all day on the rocks in the sun,
waiting for the foreign gentleman to
come within reach. He misht wait a

long time. Climbing has strengthened
the muscles of his legs into so much
steel, and a party of herdsmen have been
known to come down from the Serra to
the plains around Velletri, and to return
to their inaccessible mountains, after do-
ing daring deeds of violence, in twenty-
four hours from the time of starting;
covering at least from eighty to ninety
miles by the way. They are extraor-
dinary fellows, as active as tigers, and
fabulously strong, though they are never
very big.

This country begins behind the range
of Sabine mountains seen from Rome
across the Campagna, and the wild char-
acter of it increases as you go towards
the southeast.

Since I have told you this much, I
need not weary you with further de-
scriptions. I do not like descriptions,
and it is only when Nino gives me his
impressions that I write them, in order
that you may know how beautiful things
impress him, and the better judge of his
character.

I do not think that Gigi really cheat-
ed me so very badly about the donkey.
Of course I do not believe the story of
his carrying the brother-in-law and the
heavy load uphill at a gallop ; but I am
thin and not very heavy, and the little
ass carried me well enough through the
valleys, and when we came to a steep
place I would get off and walk, so as not
to tire him too much. If he liked to crop
a thistle or a blade of grass, I would
stop a moment, for I thought he would
grow fatter in that way, and I should
not lose so much when I sold him again.
But he never grew very fat.

Twice I slept by the way, before I
reached the end of my journey, — once
at Olevano, and once at Trevi ; for the
road from Olevano to Trevi is long, and
some parts are very rough, especially at
first. I could tell you just how every

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

.61

stone on the road looks — Rojate, the
narrow pass beyond, and then the long
valley with the vines ; then the road
turns away and rises as you go along
the plateau of Arcinazzo, which is hol-
low beneath, and you can hear the
echoes as you tread ; then at the end
of that the desperate old inn, called by
the shepherds the Madre dei Briganti, —
the mother of brigands, — sinoke-black-
ened within and without, standing alone
on the desolate heath ; further on, a
broad bend of the valley to the left, and
you see Trevi rising before you, crowned
with an ancient castle, and overlooking
the stream that becomes the Aniene
afterwards ; from Trevi through a ris-
ing valley that grows narrower at every
step, and finally seems to end abruptly,
as indeed it does, in a dense forest far
up the pass. And just below the woods
lies the town of Fillettino, where the
road ends ; for there is a road which
leads to Tivoli, but does not communi-
cate with Olevano, whence I had come.

Of course I had made an occasional
inquiry by the way, when I could do
so without making people too curious.
When any one asked me where I was
going, I would say I was bound for Fu-
ciuo, to buy beans for seed at the won-
derful model farm that Torlonia has
made by draining the old lake. And
then I would ask about the road ; and
sometimes I was told there was a
strange foreigner at Fillettino, who
made everybody wonder about him by
his peculiar mode of life. Therefore,
when I at last saw the town, I was quite
sure that the count was there, and I got
off my little donkey, and let him drink
in the stream, while I myself drank a
little higher up. The road was dusty,
and my donkey and I were thirsty.

I thought of all I would do, as 1 sat
on the stone by the water, and the beast
cropped the wretched grass ; and soon
I came to the conclusion that I did not
know in the least what I should do. I
had unexpectedly found what I wanted,

very soon, and I was thankful enough to
have been so lucky. But I had not the
first conception of what course I was to
pursue when once I had made sure of
the count. Besides, it was barely pos-
sible that it was not he, after all, but an-
other foreigner, with another daughter.
The thought frightened me, but I drove
it away. If it were really old Lira
who had chosen this retreat in which to
imprison his daughter and himself, I
asked myself whether I could do any-
thing, save send word to Nino as soon
as possible.

I felt like a sort of Don Quixote, sud-
denly chilled into the prosaic require-
ments of common sense. Perhaps if
Hedwig had been my Dulcinea, instead
of Nino's, the crazy fit would have last-
ed, and I would have attempted to scale
the castle wall and carry off the prize
by force. There is no telling what a
sober old professor of philosophy may
not do, when he is crazy. But mean-
while I was sane. Graf von Lira had a
right to live anywhere he pleased with
his daughter, and the fact that I had
discovered the spot where he pleased
to live did not constitute an introduc-
tion. Or finally, if I got access to the
old count, what had I to say to him?
Ought I to make a formal request for
Nino ? I looked at my old clothes, and
almost smiled.

But the weather was cold, though the
roads were dusty ; so I mounted my ass
and jogged along, meditating deeply.

XIV.

Fillettino is a trifle cleaner than
most towns of the same kind. Perhaps
it rains more often, and there are fewer
people. Considering that its vicinity
has been the scene of robbery, murder,
and all manner of adventurous crime
from time immemorial, I had expected
to find it a villainous place. It is noth-
ing of the kind. There is a decent ap-

A Roman Singer.

[January,

pearance about it that is surprising ; and
though the houses are old and brown
and poor, I did not see pigs in many
rooms, nor did the little children beg of
me, as they beg of every one elsewhere.
The absence of the pigs struck me par-
ticularly, for in the Sabine towns they
live in common with the family, and
go out only in the daytime to pick up
what they can get.

I went to the apothecary — there is
always an apothecary in these places —
and inquired for a lodging. Before very
long I had secured a room, and it seemed
that the people were accustomed to trav-
elers, for it was surprisingly clean. The
bed was so high that I could touch the
ceiling when I sat on it, and the walls
were covered with ornaments, such as
glazed earthenware saints, each with a
little basin for holy water, some old
engravings of other saints, a few paper
roses from the last fair, and a weather-
beaten game pouch of leather. The
window looked out over a kind of square,
where a great quantity of water ran into
a row of masonry tanks out of a num-
ber of iron pipes projecting from an
overhanging rock. Above the rock was
the castle, the place I had come to see,
towering up against the darkening sky.

It is such a strange place that I ought
to describe it to you, or you will not un-
derstand the things that happened there.
There is a great rock, as I said, rising
above the town, and upon this is built
the feudal stronghold, so that the walls
of the building do not begin less than
forty feet from the street level. The
height of the whole castle consequent-
ly seems enormous. The walls, for the
most part, follow the lines of the gray
rock, irregularly, as chance would have
it, and the result is a three-cornered
pile, having a high square tower at one
angle, where also the building recedes
some yards from the edge of the cliff,
leaving on that side a broad terrace
guarded by a stone parapet. On an-
other side of the great isolated bowlder

a narrow roadway heads up a steep in-
cline, impracticable for carriages, but
passable for four-footed beasts ; and this
path gives access to the castle through
a heavy gate opening upon a small court
within. But the rock itself has been
turned to account, and there are cham-
bers within it, which formerly served as
prisons, opening to the right and left of
a narrow staircase, hewn out of the
stone, and leading from the foot of the
tower to the street below ; upon which
it opens through a low square door, set
in the rock and studded with heavy iron
nails.

Below the castle hangs the town, and
behind it rises the valley, thickly wooded
with giant beech-trees. Of course I
learned the details of the interior lit-
tle by little, and I gathered also some
interesting facts regarding the history
of Fillettino, which are not in any way
necessary to my story. The first thing
I did was to find out what means of
communication there were with Rome.
There was a postal service twice a week,
and I was told that Count von Lira,
whose name was no secret in the village,
sent messengers very often to Subiaco.
The post left that very day, and I wrote
to Nino to tell him that I had found his
friends in villeggiatura at Fillettino,
advising him to come as soon as he
could, and t recruit his health and his
spirits.

I learned, further, from the woman
who rented me my lodging, that there
were other people in the castle besides
the count and his daughter. At least,
she had seen a tall gentleman on the
terrace with them during the last two
days ; and it was not true that the count
kept Hedwig a prisoner. On the con-
trary, they rode out together almost
every day, and yesterday the tall gentle-
man had gone with them. The woman
also went into many details ; telling me
how much money the count had spent
in a fortnight, bringing furniture and a
real piano and immense loads of baskets,

1884,]

A Roman Singer.

which the porters were told contained
glass and crockery, and must be careful-
ly handled. It was clear that the count
was settled for some time. He had
probably taken the old place for a year,
by a lease from the Roman family to
whom Fillettino and the neighboring
estates belong. He would spend the
spring and the summer there, at least.

Being anxious to see who the tall
gentleman might be, of whom my land-
lady had spoken, I posted myself in the
street, at the foot of the inclined bridle-
path leading to the castle gate. I walked
up and down for two hours, about the
time I supposed they would all ride, hop-
ing to catch a glimpse of the party.
Neither the count nor his daughter knew
me by sight, I was sure, and I felt quite
safe. It was a long time to wait, but at
last they appeared, and I confess that I
nearly fell down against the wall when
I saw them.

There they were on their horses,
moving cautiously down the narrow
way above me. First came the count,
sitting in his saddle as though he were
at the head of his old regiment, his great
gray mustaches standing out fiercely
from his severe, wooden face. Then
came Hedwig, whom I had not seen for
a long time, looking as white and sor-
rowful as the angel of death, in a close
black dress, or habit, so that her golden
hair was all the color there was to be
seen about her.

But the third rider, — there was no
mistaking that thin, erect figure, dressed
in the affectation of youth ; those fresh
pink cheeks, with the snowy mustache,
and the thick white hair showing be-
neath the jaunty hat ; the eagle nose
and the bright eyes. Baron Benoni,
and no other.

My first instinct was to hide myself ;
but before I could retreat, Benoni rec-
ognized me, even with my old clothes.
Perhaps they are not so much older
than the others, compared with his fash-
ionable garments. He made no sign as

the three rode by ; only I could see by
his eyes, that were fixed angrily upon
me, that he knew me, and did not wish
to show it. As for myself, I stood stock
still in amazement.

I had supposed that Benoni had real-
ly gone to Austria, as he had told me
he was about to do. I had thought him
ignorant of the count's retreat, save for
the hint which had so luckily led me
straight to the mark. I had imagined
him to be but a chance acquaintance of
the Lira family, having little or no per-
sonal interest in their doings. Never-
theless, I had suspected him, as I have
told you. Everything pointed to a de-
ception on his part. He had evidently
gone immediately from Rome to Fillet-
tino. He must be intimate with the
count, or the latter would not have in-
vited him to share a retreat seemingly
intended to be kept a secret. He also,
I thought, must have some very strong
reason for consenting to bury himself in
the .mountains in company with a father
and daughter who could hardly be sup-
posed to be on good terms with each
other.

But again, why had he seemed so
ready to help me and to forward Nino's
suit ? Why had he given me the small-
est clue to the count's whereabouts ?
Now I am not a strong man in action,
perhaps, but I am a very cunning rea-
soner. I remembered the man, and the
outrageous opinions he had expressed,
both to Nino and to me. Then I un-
derstood my suspicions. It would be
folly to expect such a man to have any
real sympathy or sense of friendship for
any one. He had amused himself by
promising to come back and go with me
on my search, perhaps to make a laugh-
ing-stock of me, or even of my boy, by
telling the story to the Liras afterwards.
He had entertained no idea that I would
go alone, or that, if I went, I could be
successful. He had made a mistake, and
was very angry ; his eyes told me that.
Then I made a bold resolution. I would

A Roman Singer.

[January,

see him and ask him what he intended
to do ; in short, why he had deceived me.

There would probably be no diffi-
culty in the way of obtaining an in-
terview. I was not known to the oth-
ers of the party, and Benoni would
scarcely refuse to receive me. I thought
he would excuse himself, with ready
cynicism, and pretend to continue his
offers of friendship and assistance. I
confess, I regretted that I was so hum-
bly clad, in all my old clothes ; but after
all, I was traveling, you know.

It was a bold resolution, I think,
and I revolved the situation in my mind
during two days, thinking over what I
should say. But with all my thought
I only found that everything must de-
pend on Benoui's answer to my own
question — " Why ? "

On the third day, I made myself look
as fine as I could, and though my heart
beat loudly as I mounted the bridle-path,
I put on a bold look and rang the bell.
It was a clanging thing, that seemed to
creak on a hinge, as I pulled the stout
string from outside. A man appeared,
and on my inquiry said I might wait in
the porch behind the great wooden gate,
while he delivered my message to his ex-
cellency the baron. It seemed to take
a long time, and I sat on a stone bench,
eying the courtyard curiously from be-
neath the archway. It was sunny and
clean, with an old well in the middle, but
I could see nothing save a few windows
opening upon it. At last, the man re-
turned, and said that I might come with
him.

I found Benoni, clad in a gorgeous
dressing-gown, stalking up and down a
large vaulted apartment, in which there
were a few new armchairs, a table cov-
ered with books, and a quantity of an-
cient furniture, that looked unsteady and
fragile, although it had been carefully
dusted. A plain green baize carpet
covered about half the floor, and the
remainder was of red brick. The morn-
ing sun streamed in through tall win-

dows, and played in a rainbow-like efful-
gence on the baron's many colored dress-
ing-gown, as he paused in his walk to
greet me.

" Well, my friend," said Benoni gayly,
" how in the name of the devil did you
get here ? " I thought I had been right ;
he was going to play at being my friend
again.

" Very easily, by the help of your lit-
tle hint," I replied ; and I seated myself,
for I felt that I was master of the situa-
tion.

" Ah, if I had suspected you of be-
ing so intelligent, I would not have giv-
en you any hint at all. You see I have
not been to Austria on business, but am
here in this good old flesh of mine,
such as it is."

" Consequently " — I began, and then
stopped. I suddenly felt that Beuoni
had turned the tables upon me, I could
not tell how.

" Consequently," said he, continuing
my sentence, " when I told you that I
was going to Austria I was lying."

" The frankness of the statement
obliges me to believe that you are now
telling the truth," I answered angrily.
I felt uneasy. Benoni laughed in his
peculiar way.

" Precisely," he continued again, " I
was lying. I generally do, for so long
as I am believed I deceive people ; and
when they find me out, they are con-
fused between truth and lying, so that
they do not know what to believe at all.
By the bye, I am wandering. I am sorry
to see you here. I hope you understand
that." He looked at me with the most
cheerful expression. I believe I was
beginning to be angry at his insulting
calmness. I did not answer him.

" Signor Grandi," he said in a mo-
ment, seeing I was silent, " I am en-
chanted to see you, if you prefer that I
should be. But may I imagine if I can
do anything more for you, now that you
have heard from my own lips that I am
a liar ? I say it again, — I like the word,

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

— I am a liar, and I wish I were a bet-
ter one. What can I do for you ? "

"Tell me why you have acted this
comedy," said I, recollecting at the right
moment the gist of my reflections dur-
ing the past two days.

" Why ? To please myself, good sir ;
for the sovereign pleasure of myself."

" I would surmise," I retorted tartly,
"that it could not have been for the
pleasure of any one else."

" Perhaps you mean, because no one
else could be base enough to take pleas-
ure in what amuses me ? " I nodded
savagely at his question. " Very good.
Knowing this of me, do you further
surmise that I should be so simple as to
tell you how I propose to amuse myself
in the future ? " I recognized the truth
of this, and I saw myself checkmated
at the outset. I therefore smiled, and
endeavored to seem completely satisfied,
hoping that his vanity would betray him
into some hint of the future. He seemed
to have before taken pleasure in mis-
leading me with a fragment of truth,
supposing that I could not make use of
it. I would endeavor to lead him into
such a trap again.

" It is a beautiful country, is it not ? "
I remarked, going to the window before
which he stood, and looking out. " You
must enjoy it greatly, after the turmoil
of society." You see, I was once as
gay as any of them, in the old days;
and so I made the reflection that seemed
natural to his case, wondering how he
would answer.

" It is indeed a very passable land-
scape," he said indifferently. "With
horses and a charming companion one
may kill a little time here, and find a
satisfaction in killing it." I noticed the
slip, by which he spoke of a single com-
panion instead of two.

" Yes," I replied, " the count is said
to be a most agreeable man."

He paused a moment, and the hesita-
tion seemed to show that the count was
not the companion he had in his mind.

VOL. mi. — NO. 315. 5

" Oh, certainly," he said, at length,
" the count is very agreeable, and his
daughter is the paragon of all the vir-
tues and accomplishments." There was
something a little disparaging in his tone
as he made the last remark, which
seemed to me a clumsy device to throw
me off the scent, if scent there were.
Considering his surpassing personal van-
ity, of which I had received an ocular
demonstration when he visited me in
Rome, I fancied that if there were noth-
ing more serious in his thoughts he
would have given me to understand that
Hedwig found him entirely irresistible.
Since he was able to control his vanity,
there must be a reason for it.

" I should think that the contessina
must be charmed at having so brilliant
a companion as yourself in her solitude,"
I said, feeling my way to the point.

" With me ? I am an old man. Chil-
dren of that age detest old men." I
thought his manner constrained, and it
was unlike him not to laugh as he made
the speech. The conviction grew upon
me that Hedwig was the object of his
visit. Moreover, I became persuaded
that he was but a poor sort of villain,
for he was impulsive, as villains should
never be. We leaned over the stone
sill of the window, which he had opened
during the conversation. There was a
little trail of ants climbing up and down
the wall at the side, and he watched
them. One of the small creatures, heavi-
ly laden with a seed of some sort, and
toiling painfully under the burden, had
been separated from the rest, and clam-
bered over the edge of the window-sill.
On reaching the level surface it paused,
as though very weary, and looked about,
moving its tiny horns. Benoni looked
at it a moment, and then with one finger
he suddenly whisked the poor little thing
into space. It hurt me to see it, and I
knew he must be cruel, for he laughed
aloud. Somehow, it would have seemed
less cruel to have brushed away the
whole trail of insects, rather than to

A Roman Singer.

[January,

pitch upon this one small, tired workman,
overladen and forgotten by the rest.

" Why did you do that ? " I asked in-
voluntarily.

" Why ? Why do I do anything ?
Because I please, the best of all rea-
sons."

" Of course ; it was foolish of me to
ask you. That is probably the cause
of your presence here. You would like
to hurl my boy Nino from the height
he has reached in his love, and to sat-
isfy your cruel instincts you have come
here to attack the heart of an innocent
girl." I watched him narrowly, and
I have often wondered how I had the
courage to insult him. It was a bold
shot at the truth, and his look satisfied
me that I was not very wide of the
mark. To accuse a gray-haired old
man of attempting to win the affections
of a young girl would seem absurd
•enough. But if you had ever seen
Benoni, you would understand that he
was anything but old, save for his snowy
locks. Many a boy might envy the
strange activity of his thin limbs, the
bloom and freshness of his eager face,
and the fire of his eyes. He was im-
pulsive, too ; for instead of laughing at
the absurdity of the thing, or at what
should have been its absurdity, as a
more accomplished villain would have
done, he was palpably angry. He
looked quickly at me and moved savage-
ly, so that I drew back, and it was not
till some moments later that it occurred
to him that he ought to seem amused.

" How ridiculous ! " he cried at last,
mastering his anger. " You are jok-
ing."

" Oh, of course I am joking," I an-
swered, leaving the window. " And now
I must wish you good-morning, with
many apologies for my intrusion." He
must have been glad to be rid of me,
but he politely insisted on showing me
to the gate. Perhaps he wanted to be
sure that I should not ask questions of
the servants.

As we passed through an outer hall,
we came suddenly upon Hedwig, enter-
ing from the opposite direction, dressed
in black, and looking like a beautiful
shadow of pain. As I have told you,
she did not know me. Benoni bowed
to the ground, as she went by, making
some flattering speech about her appear-
ance. She had started slightly on first
seeing us, and then she went on with-
out speaking ; but there was on her face
a look of such sovereign scorn and loath-
ing as I never saw on the features of
any living being. And more than scorn,
for there was fear and hatred with it;
so that if a glance could tell a whole
history, there would have been no detail
of her feeling for Benoni left to guess.

This meeting produced a profound
impression on me, and I saw her face
in my dreams that night. Had anything
been wanting to complete, in my judg-
ment, the plan of the situation in the
castle, that something was now supplied.
The Jew had come there to get her for
himself. She hated him for his own
sake ; she hated him because she was
faithful to Nino ; she hated him because
he perhaps knew of her secret love for
my boy. Poor maiden, shut up for days
and weeks to come with a man she
dreaded and scorned at once ! The
sight of her recalled to me that I had
in my pocket the letter Nino had sent
me for her, weeks before, and which I
had found no means of delivering since
I had been in Fillettino. Suddenly I
was seized with a mad determination to
deliver it at any cost. The baron bowed
me out of the gate, and I paused qut-
side when the ponderous door had swung
on its hinges and his footsteps were echo-
ing back through the court.

I sat down on the parapet of the
bridle-path, and with my knife cut some
of the stitches that sewed ray money be-
tween my two waistcoats. I took out
one of the bills of a hundred francs that
were concealed within, I found the let-
ter Nino had sent me for Hedwig, and

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

I once more rang the bell. The man
who had admitted me came again, and
looked at me in some astonishment.
But I gave him no time to question me.

" Here is a note for a hundred francs,"
I said. " Take it, and give this letter
to the Signora Contessina. If you bring
me a written answer here to-morrow at
this hour, I will give you as much more."
The man was dumfounded for a mo-
ment, after which he clutched the money
and the letter greedily, and hid them in
his coat.

" Your excellency shall be punctually
obeyed," he said, with a deep bow, and
I went away.

It was recklessly extravagant of me to
do this, but there was no other course.
A small bribe would have been worse
than none at all. If you can afford to
pay largely, it is better to bribe a ser-
vant than to trust a friend. Your friend
has nothing to gain by keeping your se-
cret, whereas the servant hopes for more
money in the future, and the prospect of
profit makes him as silent as the grave.

I would certainly not have acted as I
did, had I not met Hedwig in the hall.
But the sight of her pale face and heavy
eyes went to my heart, and I would have
given the whole of my little fortune to
bring some gladness to her, even though
I might not see it. The situation, too,
was so novel and alarming that I felt
obliged to act quickly, not knowing what
evils delay might produce.

On the following morning I went up
to the gateway again and rang the bell.
The same man appeared. He slipped a
note into my hand, and I slipped a bill
into bis. But, to my surprise, he did not
shut the door and retire.

" The signorina said your excellency
should read the note, and I should ac-
company you," he said ; and I saw he
had his hat in his hand, as if ready to
go. I tore open the note. It merely
said that the servant was trustworthy,
and would " instruct the Signor Grandi "
how to act.

"You told the contessina my name,
then?" I said to the man. He had an-
nounced me to the baron, and conse-
quently knew who I was. He nodded,
closed the door behind him, and came
with me. When we were in the street,
he explained that Hedwig desired to
speak with me. He expounded the fact
that there was a staircase in the rock,
leading to the level of the town. Fur-
thermore, he said that the old count and
the baron occasionally" drank deeply, as
soldiers and adventurers will do. to pass
the evening. The next time it occurred,
he, the faithful servant, would come to
my lodging and conduct me into the
castle by the aforesaid passage, of which
he had the key.

I confess I was unpleasantly alarmed
at the prospect of making a burglarious
entrance in such romantic fashion. It
savored more of the last century than
of the quiet and eminently respectable
age in which we live. But then, the
castle of Fillettino was built hundreds
of years ago, and it is not my fault if it
has not gone to ruin, like so many others
of its kind. The man recommended me
to be always at home after eight o'clock
in the evening, in case I were wanted,
and to avoid seeing the baron when he
was abroad. He came and saw where
I lived, and with many bows he left
me.

You may imagine in what anxiety I
passed my time. A whole week elapsed,
and yet I was never summoned. Every
evening at seven, an hour "before the
time named, I was in my room, waiting
for some one who never came. I was
so much disturbed in mind that I lost
my appetite and thought of being bled
again. But I thought it too soon, and
contented myself with getting a little
tamarind from the apothecary.

One morning the apothecary, who is
also the postmaster, gave me a letter from
Nino, dated in Rome. His engagement
was over, he had reached Rome, and he
would join me immediately.

F. Marion Crawford.

68 At the Saturday Club. [January,

AT THE SATURDAY CLUB.

THIS is our place of meeting ; opposite

That towered and pillared building : look at it ;

King's Chapel in the Second George's day,

Rebellion stole its regal name away, —

Stone Chapel sounded better ; but at last

The poisoned name of our provincial past

Had lost its ancient venom ; then once more

Stone Chapel was King's Chapel as before, —

(So let rechristened North Street, when it can,

Bring back the days of Marlborough and Queen Anne !)

Next the old church your wandering eye will meet
A granite pile that stares upon the street, —
Our civic temple ; slanderous tongues have said
Its shape was modelled from Saint Botolph's head,
Lofty, but narrow ; jealous passers-by
Say Boston always held her head too high.

Turn half-way round, and let your look survey
The white fagade that gleams across the way, —
The many-windowed building, tall and wide,
The palace-inn that shows its northern side
In grateful shadow when the sunbeams beat
The granite wall in summer's scorching heat ;
This is the place ; whether its name you spell
Tavern, or caravansera, or hotel.
Would I could steal its echoes ! you should find
Such store of vanished pleasures brought to mind, —
Such feasts ! the laughs of many a jocund hour
That shook the mortar from King George's tower, —
Such guests ! What famous names its record boasts,
Whose owners wander in the mob of ghosts !
Such stories ! every beam and plank is filled
With juicy wit the joyous talkers spilled,
Ready to ooze, as once the mountain pine
The floors are laid with oozed its turpentine !

A month had flitted since The Club had met;
The day came round ; I found the table set,
The waiters lounging round the iron stairs,
Empty as yet the double row of chairs.
I was a full half hour before the rest,
Alone, the banquet-chamber's single guest.
So from the table's side a chair I took,
And having neither company nor book
To keep me waking, by degrees there crept
A torpor over me, — in short, I slept.

Loosed from its chain, along the wreck-strown track
Of the dead years my soul goes travelling back ;

1884.] At the Saturday Club. 69

My ghosts take on their robes of flesh ; it seems
Dreaming is life ; nay, life less life than dreams,
So real are the shapes that meet my eyes.
They bring no sense of wonder, no surprise,
No hint of other than an earth-born source ;
All seems plain daylight, everything of course.

How dim the colors are, how poor and faint
This palette of weak words with which I paint !
Here sit my friends ; if I could fix them so
As to my eyes they seem, my page would glow
Like a queen's missal, warm as if the brush
Of Titian or Velasquez brought the flush
Of life into their features. Ay de mi !
If syllables were pigments, you should see
Such breathing portraitures as never man
Found in the Pitti or the Vatican.

Here sits our POET, Laureate, if you will,
Long has he worn the wreath, and wears it still.
Dead ? Nay, not so ; and yet they say his bust
Looks down on marbles covering royal dust,
Kings by the Grace of God, or Nature's grace;
Dead! No ! Alive ! I see him in his place,
Full-featured, with the bloom that heaven denies
Her children, pinched by cold New England skies,
Too often, while the nursery's happier few
Win from a summer cloud its roseate hue.
Kind, soft-voiced, gentle, in his eye there shines
The ray serene that filled Evangeline's.

Modest he seems, not shy ; content to wait
Amid the noisy clamor of debate
The looked-for moment when a peaceful word
Smooths the rough ripples louder tongues have stirred.
In every tone I mark his tender grace
And all his poems hinted in his face ;
What tranquil joy his friendly presence gives !
How could I think him dead ? He lives ! He lives !

There, at the table's further end I see
In his old place our Poet's vis-a-vis,
The great PROFESSOR, strong, broad-shouldered, square,
In life's rich noontide, joyous, debonair.
His social hour no leaden care alloys,
His laugh rings loud and mirthful as a boy's,
That lusty laugh the Puritan forgot,
What ear has heard it and remembers not?
How often, halting at some wide crevasse
Amid the windings of his Alpine pass,
High up the cliffs, the climbing mountaineer,
Listening the far-off avalanche to hear,

70 At the Saturday Club. [January,

Silent, and leaning on his steel-shod staff,
Has heard that cheery voice, that ringing laugh,
From the rude cabin whose nomadic walls
Creep with the moving glacier as it crawls !

How does vast Nature lead her living train
In ordered sequence through that spacious brain,
As in the primal hour when Adam named
The new-born tribes that young creation claimed ! —
How will her realm be darkened, losing thee,
Her darling, whom we call our AGASSIZ !

But who is he whose massive frame belies
The maiden shyness of his downcast eyes ?
Who broods in silence till, by questions pressed,
Some answer struggles from his laboring breast ?
An artist Nature meant to dwell apart,
Locked in his studio with a human heart,
Tracking its caverned passions to their lair,
And all its throbbing mysteries laying bare.

Count it no marvel that he broods alone
Over the heart he studies, — 't is his own ;
So in his page whatever shape it wear,
The Essex wizard's shadowed self is there, —
The great ROMANCER, hid beneath his veil
Like the stern preacher of his sombre tale ;
Virile in strength, yet bashful as a girl,
Prouder than Hester, sensitive as Pearl.

From his mild throng of worshippers released,
Our Concord Delphi sends its chosen priest,
Prophet or poet, mystic, sage, or seer,
By every title always welcome here.
Why that ethereal spirit's frame describe?
You know the race-marks of the Brahmin tribe, —
The spare, slight form, the sloping shoulders' droop,
The calm, scholastic air, the clerkly stoop,
The lines of thought the narrowed features wear,
Worn sharp by studious nights and frugal fare.

List ! for he speaks ! As when a king would choose
The jewels for his bride, he might refuse
This diamond for its flaw, — find that less bright
Than those, its fellows, and a pearl less white
Than fits her snowy neck, and yet at last,
The fairest gems are chosen, and made fast
In golden fetters ; so, with light delays
He seeks the fittest word to fill his phrase ;
Nor vain nor idle his fastidious quest,
His chosen word is sure to prove the best.

Where in the realm of thought, whose air is song,
Does he, the Buddha of the West, belong ?

1884.] The Study of Greek. 71

He seems a winged Franklin, sweetly wise,

Born to uulock the secrets of the skies ;

And which the nobler calling, — if 'tis fair

Terrestrial with celestial to compare, — :

To guide the storm-cloud's elemental flame,

Or walk the chambers whence the lightning came,

Amidst the sources of its subtile fire,

And steal their effluence for his lips and lyre ?

If lost at times in vague aerial flights,
None treads with firmer footstep when he lights ;
A soaring nature, ballasted with sense,
Wisdom without her wrinkles or pretence,
In every Bible he has faith to read,
And every altar helps to shape his creed.
Ask you what name this prisoned spirit bears
While with ourselves this fleeting breath it shares ?
Till angels greet him with a sweeter one
In Heaven, on earth we call him EMERSON.

I start ; I wake ; the vision is withdrawn
New faces greet me, but the old are gone ;
Crossed from the roll of life their cherished names,
And memory's pictures fading in their frames ;
Yet life is lovelier for these transient gleams
Of buried friendships ; blest is he who dreams !

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

THE STUDY OF GREEK.

THERE are reasons why the earliest
philosophy and literature of the civil-
ized world should have not only a tran-
scendent interest, but a unique teaching
power. Our abstract terms are con-
crete; our simple ideas are complex. In
the realm of mind the course of things
in physical science has been reversed.
The ancients had four elements ; we
have fourscore, or more. But it often
takes many of their elementary thoughts
to make one of ours. Thus the study
of the old philosophers leads us into a
more minute analysis of the rudiments
of ontology, and of deontology, too, than
is dreamed of by their successors in
these latter centuries. In poetry, equal-
ly, our comprehensive knowledge and

our easy command of nature place us
at a disadvantage. There is no scope
for the imagination in fields of space
thoroughly measured, familiarly known,
and traversed with more than the speed
of the wind. The master of a paltry
coasting vessel who should encounter
any serious peril, or bring home ac-
counts of any wonderful adventure or
strange sight, on a voyage like that de-
scribed in the Odyssey, would be re-
manded to the forecastle. Yet there
still exist on that route as rich materials
for the plastic imagination afc Homer
found there ; but we must go back to
Homer to find them. It is, moreover,
well that we should go back ; for steam
and electro-magnetism are too fast ex-

The Study of GrreeJc.

[January,

orcising the spirits that used to dwell in
wave and storm, in fountain, field, and
forest, and degrading poetry into loose-
jointed metaphysics, or sentimental ego-
tism, rhythmically written. We must ad-
mit, however, that the best translations
will furnish a very large part of the
profit and pleasure to be derived from
the Greek classics.

Yet not all. There ,-is the untrans-
latable in every language, and in none
more than in the Greek. There are,
especially in Homer, in the tragedians,
and in Aristophanes, compound words
to which we have none that correspond,
and which drop much of their meaning
in a paraphrase ; and there are turns of
expression, descriptive traits, metaphors,
which are almost despoiled of their per-
tinence and beauty either by a literal
rendering or by a free translation. Take,
for instance, the apostrophe of Prome-
theus to the sea, in the tragedy of
-ZEschylus that bears his name, — TTOI>-
Tiuiv KVfjia.T<j}V avrjpiO/jiov yeAacr^ta, liter-
ally, innumerable laugh of sea-waves,
which is not graceful English. The
Greek implies something seen and some-
thing heard, — the manifold glancing
of the sunlight from a slightly mottled
surface, and the gentle, gleeful murmur
of the sluggish waves as they lap the
shore. This very phrase adds a new
joy to the seaside. There are, too, sin-
gle words, phrases, verses, which plant
themselves ineradicably in the memory,
and which are not infrequently recalled
even by those whose Greek scholarship
is neither deep nor fresh. It is hardly
too much to say that the pleasure of
reading and of having read the Prome-
theus Vinctus of JEschylus in the orig-
inal is worth the time and labor spent
in acquiring the capacity to read it.

But it is not our present purpose to
discuss the comparative worth of aesthetic
pleasures ; nor are we prepared to deny
that, for many minds at least, equal en-
joyment with that derived from the an-
cient classics may flow from the litera-

ture of our own or other modern tongues.
What is now proposed is to consider the
worth of Greek, in its practical aspects,
for a liberally educated man, whatever
his profession may be.

In the first place, the study of Greek
is of immeasurable worth in forming a
good English style. Comparative phi-
lology is as essential to a knowledge of
grammar as comparative anatomy is to
a knowledge of the human frame. No
man ignorant of other languages under-
stands the powers and capacities of his
own. Especially is grammar learned by
acquaintance with languages that have a
grammar, which the English hardly pos-
sesses, and which those modern languages
that are the abraded debris of the Latin
possess very imperfectly, but which is
preeminently the attribute of the Greek.
There is not an inflection of a variable
Greek word which does not represent
a corresponding inflection of thought,
and a corresponding expression of the
thought in English. Conversance with
such a language tends to create precision,
copiousness, and flexibility in the choice
and use of words. Then, too, the trans-
lation of Greek into English teaches the
pupil as much English as Greek. In
the competitive endeavor to furnish the
best rendering of the Greek text, he en-
riches his English vocabulary, and ac-
quires invaluable experience in its use.
It is virtually an exercise in English
composition, with this difference in its
favor : that the young writer of themes
is confined within his own narrow range
of thoughts and the words that repre-
sent them, while in translating Greek he
is obliged to seek and ambitious to find
adequate expression for what is pictur-
esque, graphic, grand, and beautiful, far
beyond anything of his own that he
will write for years to come, if ever,
yet enabling him, whenever he has any-
thing to say, to clothe it in such drapery
as shall render it presentable.

This is not a matter of mere theory.
It is perfectly easy to detect the absence

1884.]

The Study of Greek.

of classical training in a writer. There
are undoubtedly exceptions, but so few
as not to disprove the rule. In many
years' experience as an editor we never
failed to detect a difference in favor of
contributors who had received a clas-
sical education ; and in some cases, and
with reference to writers of superior
ability and reputation, we discovered
the deficiency in that regard from inter-
nal evidence before we otherwise ob-
tained knowledge of the fact. Jsor was
it unusual for such a writer to impose
upon the editor hardly less labor in
bringing a valuable paper before the
public than had been employed in its
first composition ; thus rendering it cer-
tain that, when he published anything
on his own account, he was largely in-
debted to a competent reviser or proof-
reader. The men to whom we refer
were all well educated, doubtless famil-
iar with one or two modern languages,
and it may be supposed with the amount
of Latin that used to be taught in the
upper classes of our academies and high
schools. One of them was the presi-
dent of one of our oldest and best en-
dowed colleges, after an eminent career
at the bar and on the bench of his na-
tive State*; and he not only in his let-
ters expressed deep regrej; that he had
learned, in his boyhood, little Latin and
no Greek, but showed in papers, other-
wise of great merit, a sad lack of proper
linguistic training.

It would be well worth our while to
see how a man of this sort would con-
duct the war against Greek. Its assail-
ants, so far as we know, have had and
have manifested the benefit of classical
training in a style with the genuine
stamp and ring ; and one of the ablest
and most graceful of them, among the
recreations of his old age, found special
delight and won no little reputation by
the version of certain well-known nur-
sery melodies into Greek verse, in me-
tres with which the most fastidious
scholar could fiud no fault.

It may, indeed, be said that every
man does not need to be a good writer.
True. But it is equally true that no
well-educated man ought to be incapa-
ble of being a good writer. There are
few men of culture who do not perform
more or less pen-work, whether in pri-
vate correspondence, or in reports or
addresses to a smaller or larger public ;
and hardly less than good manners, the
free and graceful use of the pen on or-
dinary occasions is essential to the orna-
ment and dignity of social life. It is
especially desirable that our scientific
men should keep themselves on the
same plane with their brethren in other
lands. We crave for them the ease,
suppleness, and elegance of diction so
eminently characteristic of the great
English scientists of our day, who may
have obtained ascendency among their
peers chiefly by demonstration and argu-
ment, but who in large part have owed
their power in moulding general opinion
and belief to their skill in handling that
most subtle and delicate of organs, our
vernacular English. At least, let our
scientific professors and writers learn a
lesson from jEsop's curtailed fox, and
keep out of the trap till they can make
the amputation of classical culture,
which some of them commend, accepta-
ble to all their kind.

To pass to another consideration, we
look to our liberally educated men for
the guardianship and oversight of our
educational institutions. Even the most
sanguine of the anti-Greek host do not
anticipate the speedy advent of the time
when Greek will not form an impor-
tant, and in some quarters a favored,
portion of the high-school curriculum.
Some years ago, the chairman of the
committee on modern languages, ap-
pointed by the visiting board of one of
our colleges, when asked which of four
recitation - rooms, devoted to as many
tongues, he would first honor by his
presence, frankly replied, " It makes no
manner of difference to me ; I know not

The Study of Greek.

[January,

a word of either of those languages."
We should be sorry to see the time
when a graduate of that same college
may be constrained to make a like im-
partial visitation of a classical school or
academy under his charge. Careful, dis-
criminating cognizance of every kind of
school- work by competent trustees or
supervisors was never so necessary as
now, when a large part of that work is
in the hands of novices, who take the
office of teacher on their way from
college to some permanent profession.
The utter incapacity to follow a class
in a simple lesson in the Greek Reader
would be taken by the class for much
more than it means, and the incompe-
tent classical scholar would suffer far
more than he deserved as regards re-
spect for and confidence in his general
intelligence and scholarship. One would
hardly covet the position of the college
president already mentioned, who must
either have kept clear of the Greek de-
partment, or felt an oppressive awkward-
ness in visiting it. It would be unfortu-
nate were one of our colleges to estab-
lish an alternative curriculum, which
should at some future time render its
most honored graduates unfit to preside
creditably in its counsels. This argu-
ment seems to us of no little weight ;
yet it would lose its force were the study
of Greek to lapse into general disrepute
and neglect. Let us pass to some rea-
sons why it cannot so decline, but, even
in case of temporary discredit, must be
restored to a permanent place among the
essential departments of liberal culture.
The Greek is in many respects the
most important factor of the English
language. Of the words used and un-
derstood by persons of narrow intelli-
gence and little reading, while there are
many derived from the Greek, the great-
er part are of other origin. Of the ad-
ditional words used and understood by
educated persons, by reading and think-
ing persons, and by those conversant
with the arts and sciences, more, proba-

bly, are derived from the Greek than
from all other languages beside. The
same is true of words that have been
formed and have come into use within
the last half century, and of those which
are at this moment pressing their way
into current use. Of the sources of
English diction, some are drained and
dry, others are intermittent ; the Greek
alone maintains a constant and copi-
ous flow. It furnishes the names of all
the sciences, and of many of the arts ;
of many geometrical figures ; of almost
every mathematical, astronomical, and
physical instrument ; of many of the
old and of almost all the new surgical
instruments ; and of most of the various
instruments, apparatus, and methods em-
ployed in the practical applications of
science. Chemistry derives from it the
larger and more important part of its
nomenclature. In botany it has given
names to all the classes and orders of
the Linnsean system, and, equally, to
the series, classes, sub-classes, and di-
visions thereof, in the system that has
superseded it. There is no department
of life, no line of business, hardly an
invoice of goods, never a column of ad-
vertisements in a newspaper, that is not
bristling with Greek words. The man
who makes an invention, precious or
worthless, deserving a high-sounding
name or craving one to catch the pop-
ular ear, resorts nowhere but to the
Greek for the term that he needs. In
a late edition — we dare not say the last
— of Webster's quarto Dictionary, of
words beginning with ana there are
159, with anth 64, with chl 27, with chr
90, with geo 60, with ph 436, with ps
86, with sy 294. To these should be
added about 100 out of 126 words, with
these several beginnings, in the Sup-
plement, a few of which are the same
words with different meanings, but most
of which are different words. We have
in these several classes more than thir-
teen hundred words, not twenty of which
are of other than Greek derivation. The

1884.]

The Study of Greek.

list, to be sure, embraces several large
clusters of words from a common root,
it may be, not larger than some from
Latin roots that might be named ; but
if Greek roots are really more prolific
than any others, it only shows their vi-
tality when thus transplanted, and their
special adaptation to English soil. There
are also several terminations not uncom-
mon in our language which, perhaps
with no exceptions, certainly with few,
indicate a Greek origin. Such are atry,
gen, ics, metry, ogy, phy, sis, tomy.
Many of the words thus ending are, in-
deed, included 'In the thirteen hundred ;
but the greater part of them would be
found under other initial letters.

A great many of these words are tech-
nical words, the meaning^ of which it is
important, or at least becoming, that sci-
entific men and practical men of liberal
culture should know. In saying this,
we would place special emphasis on the
word know. To know that a certain
instrument is designated by a certain
word is not to know the meaning of the
word ; a liberally educated man ought to
know why the instrument is called by
that name rather than by any other.
Now the technical and scientific terms
derived from the Greek are, without ex-
ception, significant names, descriptive of
the properties, objects, or classes of ob-
jects which they represent, and so de-
scriptive of them that one previously
unacquainted with them would learn
what they are from their names alone.
Thus a Greek scholar who had never
heard of a thermometer, or a micro-
scope, or a phototype, would at once
kno-,v what they were ; while a man ig-
norant of Greek, though he might know
that certain objects were called by these
names, could give no reason why the
thermometer might not as well be called
a phototype. These technical and sci-
entific words — we cannot cite an ex-
ception— bear the precise and ordinary
signification of the Greek words from
which they are derived or compounded.

A very limited Greek vocabulary, such
as is acquired in the minimum classical
course in our colleges, suffices to make
these words easily intelligible, and thus
to open to the student not only the
nomenclature of his own specific sci-
ence or profession, but the entire range
of terms in all the arts and sciences.
Moreover, as has been said, the terms
within this range are constantly multi-
plying. Whole sheaves of them have
come into being within the memory of
the writer of this paper, and he has
often seen a brand-new word, which but
for the little of Greek he knew would
have puzzled him and teased his curi-
osity, perhaps in vain, but which was
its own prompt interpreter. This in-
rush of Greek will continue so long as
classification, invention, and discovery
shall still be progressive and aggressive ;
for the Greek furnishes a most ample
affluence of words which combine the
qualities of intelligibleness, euphony,
and facility in the graceful formation of
compound terms. Apart from any con-
siderations connected with Greek litera-
ture, one who has lived in clear light as
to so large and important a portion of
our own language cannot think with
patience of any theory of liberal educa-
tion which should leave this, else the
most luminous region of our English
vocabulary, in perpetual eclipse. If our
technological schools aim at making their
graduates anything more than very nar-
row specialists, they will find it neces-
sary to introduce Greek into their cur-
riculum. We should be sorry for them
to dispense with Latin ; but Greek is
by far the more important of the two.

We add yet another reason for the
study of Greek by our educated classes.
We call ourselves a Christian people,
and ill as we deserve the name, it never
was so truly ours as now, if we may
trust the statistics of the churches and
benevolent institutions of all the lead-
ing Christian denominations. The wave
of agnosticism, already refluent in Ger-

The Study of Greek.

[January,

many, and past its flood in England,
was slower and later in reaching our
shores, yet shows infallible tokens that
it has attained its high- water mark here.
But for the self-laudation of those whom
it lifts from their feet, thus giving them
a transient elevation, its impact here has
been so languid and of so limited extent
as hardly to attract the notice of the
religious world. For the greater part
of our people the Christian Scriptures
are a series of sacred books, and none
the less so for the decline of bibliola-
try. Indeed, the very writers who have
been the most efficient in their assaults
on unreasoning and superstitious rever-
ence for the mere letter of the Bible
are foremost in their appreciation of its
paramount and inestimable worth, and
of its rightful hold on the intelligent
and fervent interest of every mind and
heart. The Jews train their sons in
Hebrew for the sole purpose of enabling
them to read their Scriptures. Many
Christian men and women have learned
Greek even late in life, and at the ut-
most disadvantage, merely in order to
read the New Testament in the original.
The sacred books of a people have cer-
tainly a strong claim on such of its cit-
izens as hold a foremost place in culture
and influence. There are many ques-
tions raised in the discussion of dogmatic
theology, and many references and al-
lusions in the pulpit, which need for
their clear understanding some conver-
sance with the Greek of the New Tes-
tament. The Revised Version is creating

in the arraignment and defense of its
authors an already voluminous body of
fresh literature, in which our principal
reviews and, equally, some of our popu-
lar newspapers have borne no inconsid-
erable part ; and the whole ground thus
covered is well worthy of the enlight-
ened cognizance of the Christian public,
and ought to be within the easy compre-
hension of a liberally educated man. In
fine, there are many occasions on which
a person who has any interest — wheth-

er on the score of intelligence, taste, or
piety — in Christianity and its canonical
writings ought to be glad to know for
himself, or to determine from his own
best judgment, precisely what is the
voice of Scripture.

More than all else, there is in the
New Testament no little of the untrans-
latable. There are shades of meaning,
delicate lines and hues of pictorial nar-
rative, traits of sentiment, evanescent
under the hand of the most skillful trans-
lator, yet flashing vividly upon him who
reads the very words of the evangelist
or the apostle. This is especially true,
as every qualified witness will testify,
of the biographies of Him who is his
own religion. They are stories that
grow perpetually on re-perusal and on
close perusal, and no one who prizes
them in the vernacular version can ever
have read them in the Greek without
being devoutly thankful for the ability
so to read them. If Christianity has,
as we believe it has, its birth in the bo-
som of Eternal Love, and its mission co-
eternal with Him from whom it came,
there will always remain sacred and co-
gent reasons for the study of the lan-
guage consecrated by the earliest per-
manent records of the Divine humanity,
destined to be the light and life of all
ages and nations.

There exist exaggerated notions as
to the time required for the study of
Greek. It has been repeatedly said and
written that it demands the hardest work
of four years in a course preparatory
for college. This may have been seem-
ingly true of one or two schools a quar-
ter of a century ago ; but in most of
our classical schools the entire prepar-
atory course then occupied but three
years, and was often completed in two.
Indeed, at a still earlier period, when
school vacations were merely nominal,
when all that a studious boy did was to
study, and when plain living did more
to keep students in vigorous health than
hygienic restrictions and rules do now,

1884.]

The Study of Greek.

it was no uncommon thing for a boy
who had more brains than his father had
money to fit himself for college in a
year. The requirements then included
more Greek and Latin than at present,
but much less of mathematics, and very
little beside, and a year then was prob-
ably equivalent to two years now ; for
about one third of the school year is
now taken up by vacations and holidays,
and our school-boys are encouraged, or
at least permitted, to have not a few en-
grossing objects and pursuits aside from
their school-life. In most of our good
preparatory schools Greek now occupies
a portion, by no means the principal
portion, of from two to three years ; be-
ing commenced in many of them in the
last quarter (ten weeks) of the third
year before entering college. We have
before us the course of study in one of
our principal schools, in which Greek is
studied for three years. The Greek in
this course embraces four books of Xen-
ophon's Anabasis, one of Herodotus,
four of the Iliad, portions of the Cyro-
paedia, and the Greek Testament, with
exercises for the last year and a half in
reading at sight Xenophon, Herodotus,
and Homer, and exercises during nearly
the whole time in writing Greek. This
is considerably in advance of the require-
ment for admission in any of our New
England colleges ; and the time spent
in writing Greek might well seem ex-
cessive and unreasonable, were not this
exercise so arranged and conducted as
to supersede in great part the formal
study of the grammar, and by enriching
the student's vocabulary to save much
of his mechanical toil in turning over,
the leaves of his lexicon.

We have before us a full statement
of the time devoted to Greek in a pri-
vate school, which always sends to col-
lege admirably prepared pupils, and
which has its clientelage almost wholly
among families in which there would be
no disposition to shorten the term, or to
apply undue stimulants to the diligence,

of school life. Greek in this school is
commenced two years and a quarter be-
fore entering college. The lessons are
from two to four each week. The en-
tire number of lessons does not exceed
three hundred. We are assured on the
best authority that little more than half
that number of lessons would suffice for
a boy who made study his vocation, in-
stead of his a-vocation, or side-calling,
secondary to base-ball, military drill, and
miscellaneous amusements.

It must be borne in mind that the les-
sons in Greek in our good schools are
not, as of old, mere recitations, but what
they purport to be, hours of direct and
positive instruction ; superseding a con-
siderable portion of the study formerly
required, and facilitating all the rest.

It ought, in this connection, to be em-
phatically stated that in the method of
teaching Greek there has been in all our
best schools not so much an essential
improvement as an entire revolution,
and one which must very soon sweep
the old, cumbrous methods out of the
way. The grammar is now studied, not
in mass, but in great part from words
and sentences as they occur in reading.
The mode in which one acquires the
command of his vernacular tongue is
copied in every respect in which it can
be made availing. The scholar learns
what words are by seeing where they
stand and how they are used. For
much of the labor of the lexicon the pu-
pil's own sagacity is substituted. The
Greek tongue is justly reputed as the
most copious of all ancient languages,
and yet it is meagre in its roots. It is
rich in its wealth and unequaled power
of combination. The student used to
be suffered to regard every word as a
separate entity, to be sought by itself in
the lexicon, without reference to any
kindred words. He is now taught to
analyze a compound word, and to de-
termine its meaning by its component
parts and its context. Thus reading at
sight, which would formerly have been

The Study of Greek.

[January,

considered as a more recondite art than
Hindoo jugglery, is now made easy, and
a very slender vocabulary, with an ac-
tive mind, will enable a boy to feel
quite at home in a page of the Anabasis,
or iu one of Lucian's Dialogues, which
he had never seen before.

Nor let it be imagined that for a boy
who is going to be an engineer, or an
architect, or a chemist, the hours spent
in learning Greek are, even iu the utili-
tarian-view, so much lost time. They
will certainly facilitate his acquisition of
the more difficult modern languages, es-
pecially of the German and its allied
tongues. They will save him a great
deal of labor in consulting dictionaries
for words of Greek parentage. They
will preclude embarrassing ignorance
and mortifying blunders as to terms
which he ought to understand. They
will render the writing of English very
much less toilsome, and thus will bring
him into easier relations with the mem-
bers of his own profession, and with the
public at large.

The importance of the modern Eu-
ropean tongues has been urged as a rea-
son for dropping Greek in a scientific
or practical education. With regard to
these languages, the great mistake has
been that in our colleges and classical
schools they have been studied too much
in the way in which Latin and Greek
used to be studied, as if they were not
only dead languages, but incapable of
being raised to life. Better methods
are fast coming into use. French and
German are now taught as they might
be learned in Paris or Dresden. The
pupil acquires the language by using it,
rather than as a condition precedent to
using it. This improved method is fast
making its way, and will soon become
universal. From one of our schools,
second to none in its reputation for
Greek, the pupils now go to college ca-
pable of conversing with a good degree
of fluency in either French or German,
and many of them in both ; and we

doubt whether more time is there con-
sumed in Greek, French, and German
by a boy who takes all three than used
to be occupied under the old method,
and to much less advantage, by Greek
alone.

There is one argument against Greek,
which we have not attempted to meet,
because we have not known how to
deal with it. It is alleged that the study
of Greek is not only a waste of time,
but that it cramps the mind, employs it
in work unsuited to the development
of capacity for scientific labor and for
practical usefulness, and is a drawback
on one's success in other than literary
pursuits. A charge like this admits of
specifications, and ought to be brought
only by those who can make some show
of damage. Bat when a member in the
fourth generation of £he most success-
ful family in America ascribes to Greek
all the misfortunes and failures of his
ancestors and kindred, we might almost
suspect him of anti-republican aspira-
tions ; for the only misfortune that can
be conceived of in the history of that
family is their failure to become a race
of hereditary monarchs. Then again,
when the man who, confessedly at the
head of his department of science in
this country, has only his peers among
the foremost scientific men in Europe
complains of having been weighted down
by Greek in his boyhood, we doubt
whether any ambitious youth will spurn
the weight if with it he can start on a
career so very full of honor. Men of
this sort are not valid witnesses, and we
have no others. When the men who
. linger in the outer courts of science, and
try in vain to enter, or when those who
in business or in political life are perpet-
ually stumbling and faltering, can show
us that such smattering of Greek as they
have has been the insuperable obstacle
in their way, it will be a fit time to in-
quire how and why.

Fortunately for us, the experiment of
dispensing with Greek at the option of

1884.]

Newport.

candidates for university honors in the
mathematical and physical sciences has
been tried in Germany, and it has been
found that even for these sciences a reg-
ular classical course, including Greek,
furnishes a better preparation than is
attained by the non-classical, but most
skillfully devised and ably conducted
curriculum of the Realschulen. Such is
the almost unanimous testimony of the
professors in the Prussian universities.
We could hardly expect more favorable
results in this country, especially when
we bear in mind that the Prussian edu-
cational system is in every department

thoroughly organized, and administered
by instructors who have passed a pre-
scribed test ; while it would be impossi-
ble in our country, except by slow de-
grees and with numberless exceptions
and failures, to establish a uniform and
adequate system for the preliminary
training of scientific students.

We rest our case here, trusting that
we may have added some little weight
of truth and reason in behalf of classical
education as the best possible discipline
for scientific study, and for the arts, pur-
suits, and employments of liberally edu-
cated men.

A. P. Peabody.

NEWPORT.

XV.

A MAN'S ORDEAL.

THE season was now at its height.
The President was in town, alternately
making brief public appearances, and
being spirited from house to house
among the select few who had captured
him, in a furtive and costly seclusion,
as if he had been some influential mal-
efactor whom it was desirable to keep
out of the way. The fragments of a
religious convention and those of a po-
litical reform convention, which had re-
cently been held there, were still drift-
ing about the place. Entertainments of
the most brilliant sort were multiplied to
distraction ; the lawn-tennis tournament
was on the point of collecting upon the
Casino lawn a dense parterre of beauti-
ful women in ravishing costumes ; and
in fine, the whirl of gay life, which was
doomed to cease m two or three weeks
more, made one think of a giant soap-
bubble whirling faster and faster, and
gathering a wilder glow of color as the
instant of bursting draws nearer.

The collapse of one adventurer like
Raish Porter was a mere incident in the
general history of the season's bubble ;
but it created a widespread and intense
astonishment, and, coming so soon after
the runaway marriage, it swallowed up
the excitement which had eddied for a
little while around Justin and Vivian.

People were greatly surprised that
Raish should have turned out as he had
done. And it is noticeable that this
matter of how individuals " turn out " is
always a great mystery to the world.
The reason is that the world occupies
itself with exteriors, not interiors, of
character ; consequently, when that
which is in a man comes in due time to
the front, the crowd is puzzled because
he has " turned out " to public view
what it might all along have known was
there, had it taken the trouble to inquire
within.

Mrs. Farley Blazer was a loser to a
considerable extent by the downfall of
her confidential friend, companion, and
adviser. She was greatly incensed at
his fiasco, and the rumor soon came into
circulation that she had used very pro-

Newport.

[January,

fane language — as was her wont on
occasions of great excitement — when
news of the arrest first reached her.
The financial injury done to her, al-
though not serious in proportion to the
large income allowed her by her neg-
lected and broken-down husband, was
especially exasperating because she was
always averse to parting with money in
any way, and because she had made up
her mind, immediately on Vivian's elope-
ment, to purchase Count Fitz- Stuart for
her niece Ruth, by paying off his debts.
That expense, which had already caused
her much anticipatory anguish, yet was
inevitable, now became a source of re-
doubled pain.

But it was Oliphant who, though not
entangled in the wreck, felt its imme-
diate effects in the most tangible way.
Raish's property was all promptly at-
tached, including the yacht, his horses
and equipages, and whatever belonged
to him in the Craig cottage. The house-
hold came, as a matter of course, to a
dead stop, and the servants prepared to
leave. Oliphant, however, had an in-
spiration : he saw an opportunity to
turn the situation to account in a way
that captivated his heart. He engaged
the servants to remain, and lost no time
in striking a bargain with Mr. Craig,
by which he agreed to pay the rent for
a certain period, which Raish had left in
arrear, and also to retain the house un-
til the first of October, at an increased
rate, on condition that part of the money
was to go to Justin. This being settled,
he went again to Tiverton, and threw
himself upon the compassion of his
young friends there. He was entirely
alone, he said, and wanted some one to
take charge of the house and banish the
reminiscences of Raish which, otherwise,
would haunt him there. Would they
not come down and occupy it ? All he
wanted for himself was his present
room, and perhaps a breakfast : most of
the time he should be elsewhere. He
represented, modestly, that it would be

a great favor to him, if they would
come.

" Ah," said Justin, with a tremble of
ready sentiment in his young voice, and
putting his hands on Oliphant's two
shoulders, " if you were n't so much old-
er than I, I should call you the most
delicious, friendly fraud I ever knew.
Of course we see through you — don't
we, Vivian ? " and he turned to her for
the quick corroboration of which he was
sure. " But as long as it 's a delightful
plan, and you 've been guilty of a de-
ception, I should n't wonder if we were
to punish you by accepting it."

They did accept. They came down
that evening ; and there in his old home,
with his old piano, Justin made the keys
warble like a choir of birds, and filled
Oliphant with generous satisfaction at
the pleasure he had been able to bestow
and the gladness that was given him in
return. How like a dream it seemed !
Only two months ago he had sat in
the same place listening to Justin, and
thinking of his apparently hopeless pas-
sion for Vivian Ware ; and now she
was here as Justin's bride. It was a
happy omen ; for at that time he had
thought of Octavia, too, and at this mo-
ment he was thinking of her again !

It was several days since he had been
able to see her, and he was resolved
upon going to High Lawn on the mor-
row. He wanted to tell her how nicely
the two young people were provided
for ; he wanted to tell her — - but why
go over it in advance ? He knew per-
fectly well what he wished to say ; and
yet, on reflection, he did n't know very
clearly. It eluded him in the most sin-
gular manner. The only thing was to
go and see if it would elude him in Oc-
tavia's presence.

Before starting out, in the morning,
he asked Vivian if sbe had any message
for Octavia, in case he should see her ;
but doubtless the young wife would
have guessed whither he had gone, with-
out that. And when, all day, he did not

1884.]

Newport.

make his appearance, she and Justin
could not help thinking that the inter-
view had resulted in something of un-
usual importance.

Oliphant went on foot, and every
step seemed to make him lighter and
more buoyant, instead of causing effort.
The old song was humming itself in his
brain, for the first time iu a long inter-
val : —

" An' I were as fair as she,
Or she were as kind as I; " —

and it had a new significance now,
though it carried him back to the day
when he first saw Octavia. As he
reached the small gate admitting to a
side-path that led up to High Lawn, an-
other sound greeted him, — a sound from
without. It was the jangling chirr of
the steel chains on Octavia's fleet horses,
and for a moment Oliphant was trou-
bled by the idea that she was just leav-
ing the house ; but the next instant he
perceived that the carriage was approach-
ing from the road above. Though he
could not see it through the intervening
English beeches, he heard it enter the
drive, and knew that it swept up to the
door, leaving a reminiscence of silvery
tones in the air, which blended a wintry
suggestion of sleigh-bells with the sum-
mer landscape.

He was exultant that she should have
returned so in the nick of time to meet
him ; it flattered him with a fancy that
some instinctive sense of his coming
had called her home.

When he presented himself, the maid,
with a confidence that augured well,
said, " I think she is in ; " then merely
knocked at the half-open drawing-room
door and announced his name. Octavia
was within : she had just taken off her
small, compact pansy bonnet, and held
it in one hand by the strings, like a con-
ventional shepherdess's flower-basket.

" Oh, then you did n't go away ! "

she exclaimed, coming forward with a

dazzling welcome in her face, and what

seemed to Oliphant a genuine air of re-

VOL. LIII. — NO. 315. 6

lief. She shook hands with him cor-
dially. "I had heard of Mr. Porter's
downfall, and arrest, and all that," she
said to him, rapidly; "and somehow I
did n't feel sure that you would stay,
don't you know ? I thought his affairs
might in some way affect you, — might
make it necessary for you to go to New
York."

" No, not at all," he returned, with
unconscious dignity. " I had no con-
nection with them but the accident of
being in the house. And I certaiuly
should n't have gone without letting you
know."

How much or how little meaning he
put into those last words was best known
to Octavia. She slightly withdrew, as
she heard them, and seated herself by
the table, where she laid the minute
basket-bonnet.

" I came near missing you," she pro-
ceeded, with a more subdued demeanor.
" I have just this moment got back.
Did you see me driving up? I went
early to see Mrs. Chauncey Ware."
The whole truth was that she had heard
of Oliphant's taking the train the day
before, and part of her errand this morn-
ing had been to find out casually, if she
could, whether he had gone to New
York or not. But of this she naturally
said nothing. " You know," she con-
tinued, " the Wares were very indignant
with — with bothiyou and me — because
they thought we had helped them to run
away ; I mean Vivian and Justin. So
I determined to go down there and ex-
plain."

" Do you think it was worth while, if
they choose to do us injustice ? " asked
Oliphant.

Octavia looked down, and blushed
slightly. " I did n't care so much for
myself," she answered with hesitation.
" I thought you would hardly care to
speak for yourself, but that I might
speak of you. Are you sorry ? "

" No ; I can't be, since you were tak-
ing that trouble on my account." If

Newport.

[January,

she had glanced up she would have seen
that Oliphant was looking at her very-
gen tly.

" And I told Mrs. Ware that we cer-
tainly sympathized with the young peo-
ple," she went on, eagerly, "and had
hoped we should see them united."

" She '11 be convinced of that," Oli-
phant remarked, rather defiantly, "when
she hears what I have done." He went
on, then, to tell her about it.

Octavia gave him an arch look ; there
was a sparkle of approbation in her eye,
and her lips were touched with a mirth-
ful sympathy. " Oh, yes," she cried,
"now you've injured yourself with
Mrs. Ware, beyond recovery ! I 'm so
glad!"

" Oh, that 's cruel — rejoicing in my
misfortune," said Oliphant.

" I did n't mean that" Octavia an-
swered. " You know : for the sake of
Vivian and Justin." And she laughed
at her mistake, so brightly and gayly
that Oliphant felt he had never until
then been upon such safe and easy terms
with her.

" Then I 'm not irretrievably ruined
with you and Mrs. Craig," he said con-
tentedly. " By the way, Vivian sent
her love to you."

He failed in trying to utter this care-
lessly. A deeper chord stirred in his
voice, and Octavia felt that it was the
forerunner of something momentous.

" Thanks ; and please give her mine,
Mr. Oliphant," she returned, with down-
cast eyes. There was still a pure, fine
color in her cheeks. She turned half
away, to touch and smell some flowers
upon the table ; and it seemed as if
while she inhaled their fragrance the
glow of their beauty was reflected in her
face.

He was about to speak, when that
sense of knowing her so well and being
on easy terms, which had just encour-
aged him, departed ; and he felt that
he hardly knew her at all. He beheld
her loveliness ; he could sit there and

carry on ordinary conversation, as her
acquaintance or friend ; but what pre-
sumption had brought him to suppose
that he could ever go below that fair
surface ? He experienced the terror
which is not fear, but awe, that all fine-
ly strung natures are subject to, the
moment they surrender to a great emo-
tion.

" Mrs. Gifford," he began, after try-
ing to steady himself against it, " do
you know "what has happened to me,
while we have been watching those two
young hearts — those friends of ours?"
If a clear glance, free from all flaw
of suspicion, could have disarmed him,
he would have been disconcerted then ;
for she responded with just that sort of
glance, and the unperturbed expectancy
of a child.

Perhaps it was not very certain, in
Oliphant's mind whether or not she
made any definite answer ; but the
chance was his again to speak.

" I have grown to love you," he said,
swiftly, with suppressed fervor. And
all the while the strange awe of that
master-passion was upon him and con-
trolled him.

Did she, too, feel it ? For an instant
she covered her face with her hands.
When she took them away, she was
pale ; the magic of the roses had van-
ished from her cheeks, and her appar-
ent calm was maintained with difficulty.
"You, Mr. Oliphant?" There was
a trembling hesitancy, a bewitching se-
ductiveness, in her tone. " Ah, why ?
And how was I to know ? "

" One does n't find a reason for love,
Mrs. Gifford. I only know that it is
here in me, and is stronger than I am,
and that you created it. May I not
bring back to you what you have
created ? "

Like a woman luxuriating in some
delicious melody, familiar but long un-
heard, Octavia reclined slightly in her
fastidiously patterned chair, drinking in
what he said.

1884.]

Newport.

" Is it possible," she murmured soft-
ly, " that I have been the cause. of this

— in so short a time, Mr. Oliphant ? "

" But consider how rapidly we came
to know each other," he urged, " and
how much has happened in that time."

" Yes, yes," she mused aloud, sympa-
thetically. " It has been very swift, and
strange."

" More than that," he returned. " It
has changed the whole current of my
life : I know what it is, again, to be
happy. We have had the same thoughts
and the same interests, and everything
has seemed to bring us into closer rela-
tion, all the time. Have n't you found
something in all this, too, Mrs. Gifford

— and something that makes what I tell
you now only natural ? "

" Our friendship has given me a great
deal of pleasure," said Octavia, still en-
joying the luxury of receptiveness.

" But it is time for it to end ! " he
declared, boldly. " With me it has
ended, because love has begun. Oh, I
know, Mrs- Gifford, I have little enough
to offer. I 'm not rich, and I 'm not
brilliant or distinguished ; but if I were,
those things, after all, would n't be the
chief. I could only offer you myself
and my honest devotion, as I do now."

While he spoke he had risen ; and
there he stood with hands clasped tight
together — a figure so much stronger
than his words, so frank and determined
yet reverent, that Octavia became aware
of having underestimated the force of
which he was capable. She nerved her-
self.

" You make too little of your merit,
Mr. Oliphant. It is not a small thing
to offer sincerely what you do. But
why choose me ? Why am I more
worthy of it than some one else ? "

"Why?" echoed Oliphant, with an
intonation that bordered on a wondering
laugh. " Because there can't be any
one else, beside you ! How can you
think so for a moment ? "

" I could scarcely help the question,"

she answered. " I was only thinking
how easily there might be some spirit
much younger and fresher than mine —
some one who could give you all that
your devotion would deserve. Consider,
Mr. Oliphant : is there no one like that,
whom you know ? " Josephine was in
her mind ; and, while she flattered her-
self that she was giving Josephine a
chance, she was really extracting the
last drop of satisfaction from Oliphant's
homage.

" It is a torture to me even to have
you suggest such a thing," he declared,
with vehemence. " Do you imagine
that I have looked about me deliberate-
ly, and made my choice by a cold calcu-
lation ? My sentiment for you is spon-
taneous, and I had hoped that you
might have the same towards me. But
you hesitate and reflect and question.
... If it is not spontaneous, if it re-
quires an effort "...

" You misunderstand me," Octavia
hastened to assure him, though speaking
quite low. Her hold upon her own pur-
pose was weakening ; she feared that he
might drift away from her. "I like
you very much — as a friend."

It did not surprise her, nor seem at
all ridiculous, to see him drop on one
knee before her. " You will care for
me in the other way ! " he cried, taking
her hand. " I 'm not ashamed to ask your
compassion. You know my wretched
loneliness, the emptiness of my life ; but
I have held myself together and existed
— I never knew for what, until I met
you. But now that I have allowed my-
self this hope of you, if it is taken
away my loneliness and wretchedness
will be twice what they were before. I
am dependent on you."

" You are sure you have not deceived
yourself ? " she asked in long-drawn
tones, that intimated a refinement of
yearning rather than any doubt or re-
luctance.

" No, a thousand times ! " he ex-
claimed, with joyous energy. " I ask

Newport.

[January,

you to be my wife, my veritable wife —
the woman I love with a strength be-
yond anything I ever felt before ! You
will consent, Octavia?"

For the first time he had uttered,
without prefix or addition, her name ;
that strange, arbitrary, yet coveted pass-
word to the closest intimacy, which is
so easily seized, but so inoperative un-
less held by the right person.

He fixed his eyes upon her, and she
gave back his gaze unfalteringly. I
don't think she was certain, even then,
whether she would accept or reject him.
For a moment she permitted him all the
sweetness of a realized conquest : he be-
lieved that he had won her. He saw the
unwonted flaming in her eyes ; a warm
light that alternately advanced and re-
treated. As it came forward — that sin-
gular light — and was concentrated on
him, it seemed to be the glow of love.
When it retreated, it grew uncertain ; it
was something else.

He rose, drawing her hand along
with his, as if to lift her also and clasp
her to him. She, too, began to rise, but
as she did so she released her hand ;
the brilliance in her eyes retired, and
yet filled them with an illumination the
whole character of which was changed.
She had recalled her determination. She
remembered the hour when, in that very
room, amid all those soft colors and those
dainty surroundings, she had undergone
an agony of which Oliphant had been
the immediate agent.

Unaccountable, unnatural, though we
may think it, the impulse of revenge
which that crisis had excited had gone
on persisting through her mutations of
feeling about Oliphant, and revived at
this instant, overcoming every other
consideration. There the mood was, at
any rate ; and Oliphant had to take its
consequences, no matter how little logic
or mercy it had in it.

" No ! " she said, abruptly. " I don't
consent. T cannot."

" Not consent ? How can you say

that, now ? And why ? What has hap-
pened, to change you from a moment
ago ? "

" I 'm not changed : I am steadfast,"
answered Octavia, almost fiercely, toss-
ing her head slightly as though to shake
off some imaginary restraining touch.
" I never meant to take you ! I have
given no promise — not the least word."

" Then why did you let me go so far ?
Why have you gone so far yourself ? "
Oliphant demanded, in sudden, fiery re-
monstrance. " Why could n't you have
told me so at once ? "

" I might have," she retorted, with a
light, icy laugh. " But it would have
cut short an agreeable acquaintance. It
was n't I who made any advance, Mr.
Oliphant. Ton were the active one.
And might I inquire why you have gone
so" far, if you don't like the inevitable
result ? "

" Because," Oliphant flung back,sting-
ingly — " because I trusted you. Be-
cause I was unsuspicious, and took it
for granted that you had a sense of hon-
or. Because I was candid with you
from the start, and placed myself, just
as I was, unreservedly in your hands."

" At your time of life you should
have known better," said Octavia, with
a mocking compassion. " Is it for a
woman always to take care of a man,
or of all men, and protect them from dis-
tress, as well as herself ? I thought you
would understand, of course, that I might
be drawn on by the charm of such per-
fect attention as yours ; naturally, I
might continue to receive it as long as
you thought it worth while to give it."

" Then you have done everything de-
liberately ? " he replied, inferentially.

" Why not, Mr. Oliphant ? " She
made a lazy, waving gesture with one
hand. " It gave me pleasure. Did n't
it you, too ? "

" 0 my God ! 0 Octavia ! " he moaned,
unthinkingly bringing together in speech
the two powers — one divine, the other
how sadly human ! — that controlled his

1884.]

Newport.

fate at this juncture. " And is this the
end ? " He appeared dazed, for an in-
stant ; then a fresh glow of hope came
to him. " I don't know why it is," he
said, half distraught, "but it seems to
me that you are hardly in earnest. You
will reconsider. You had some reason
for wanting to test me ; but you don't
mean all that you have said. For
Heaven's sake, tell me that you don't!
You saw what was coming ; you could
so easily have sent me away ; but you
did not do it, and you gave me so much
encouragement."

Octavia watched him as impassively
as she might have done if he had been
a curious automaton. One arm rested
on the holly mantel, and her head leaned
towards it : from her pallid face the eyes
shone with a still coldness only less hard
than that of her diamond ear-drops,
which Oliphant now thought of always
as the petrifaction of tears ; and her
long dress had swept round her in heavy
folds that suggested a serpentine coil, so
that she suddenly portrayed herself to
him as a sorceress rising in the shape
of woman from a lower half that was
monstrous.

"You have deceived yourself, Mr.
Oliphant," she answered, sweetly and
calmly. " A few weeks ago we were
strangers, but peculiar circumstances
brought us together. You are trying to
take advantage of them — that 's all."

She saw an acute pain leap out and
flood his face, as it were, altering it in-
stantaneously. There is such a thing as
spiritual bloodshed. A changed light of
suffering flows out over the countenance
of one who has been stabbed by words,
as distinctly and with an effect as terri-
ble as that of the scarlet life-tide which
gushes from a physical wound.

" I must apologize humbly for my
mistake," Oliphant said. " It was a
great oversight." He cast about him
briefly, with a despair that accelerated
into frenzy. " How dreadful it must be
for you," he cried, " to be afflicted with

this sort of mistake ! But if you have
done as I begin to think you have ; if
you have only trifled ; if you have gone
on purposely to inflict punishment on a
sincere affection, then I can tell you
this, Mrs. Gifford — you never loved,
and you don't know what love is ! But,
no matter what you have done, 1 love
you still, with a senseless infatuation,
and, as I began by being frank, I can
say to you now, if it gives you any sat-
isfaction, that the blow you have given
me is bitter — bitterer than death ! "

He turned to go to the door.

Octavia did not yet relent. " Yes, it
may be bitter," she said, keenly ; " but
other men have been rejected before
now, and it was bitter to them, too, I
suppose."

Instantly, the whole scheme of her
vengeance became plain to him, then.
He flashed one look at her, that told her
so, and made her aware of her littleness.

This, and her woman's desire still to
be thought well of — to do a wrong, yet
somehow be assured that she was in the
right — dissolved her firmness. She
started from her contemplative attitude.

" What have I done ? Oh, what have
I said, Mr. Oliphant, that I ought not
to ? If I have caused you pain, will
you not forgive me ? "

Perhaps the dumb animal that we
strike, in our power, forgives ; but its
piteous eyes accuse us still. For two
or three moments, Oliphant remained
mute ; and the sight of him as he was
then filled Octavia with horror of her-
self. His lips were steady, and not a
muscle of his face moved, yet every
heart-beat seemed to send a pulsation of
anguish across it.

" Forgive ? " he repeated at length,
•with something like contempt for an
idle question. " Your request does me
honor, Mrs. Gifford. Of course, it 's a
man's proudest prerogative to forgive."

A grim, curt laugh escaped him, and
he made his way quickly out of the
house.

Newport.

[January,

XVI.

LITTLE EFFIE.

Oliphant's most poignant anguish as-
sailed him after he had left Octavia.
He smarted with exasperation at the ab-
solute rebuff he had received ; but, be-
yond that, and still more sharply, he
writhed under a sense of the weakness
which had made it possible to expose
himself to such humiliation and despair,
for the sake of a mere fatuous illusion,
a baseless dream, that had cost him all
his peace of mind and his slowly ac-
quired resignation to circumstances.

He was not pesigned, now, you may
believe. There was a snapping and a
tingling in his veins, all over his body ;
his brain was tortured by an insuffer-
able heat. It is no exaggeration to say
that invisible furies seemed to accom-
pany him and lash him with their whips,
as he went along ; for this Oliphant,
beneath the peaceful, proper, and emi-
nently modern blankness of his outward
man, carried capacities for the utmost
stress of emotion.

When he reached the gate of the
drive he found it impossible to go to-
wards the town. A wrathful, unqual-
ified disgust for Newport had taken pos-
session of him : he felt that his whole
sympathy with the place had been a fac-
titious and temporary one, and had sud-
denly fallen away from him. There was
something false in the life ; there was
something false in Octavia : it all hung
together. He walked away blindly to-
wards the long, rolling moorland that
lay between High Lawn and the ocean ;
he leaped a fence, and strode on through
the midst of a light, gathering fog, —
alone and miserable, yet glad to have
his misery to himself. It was a region
of low, rough-featured hills, or gradual
swells, with ridges of gray rock pricking
their way through the surface here and
there, and showing in their spiny course

like the dorsal fins of some impossible
subterrene sort of fish. It was a region
bleak, barren, and forsaken, the sight of
which accorded with his wretched state
of mind. Wandering on, he came at
last to where he could look out upon the
ocean, close by that spot where he and
Octavia had gone down together to the
Pirate's Cave ; and there he heard the
strange variations of an alarum from
the steam fog-horn at Beaver Tail, which
blew its colossal goblin tones mysteri-
ously through the pale, shrouding vapor
that overhung everything around him.
Though meant as a warning, to him
it brought temptation : it was like the
unearthly voice of an evil spirit, calling
him on to he knew not what. Then,
abruptly, the fog lified a little, and
revealed the patient, waiting sea : the
thought of refuge and surcease from
grief filled his mind. Yes, that was the
meaning of the temptation : the weird
voice through the mist was inviting him
to suicide. Oliphant was not a swim-
mer, and one plunge from that rocky
ledge by the cave, where he had held
his earlier memorable conversation with
Octavia, would have meant, for him,
speedy and painless death. Although
naturally religious, he was not formally
so, and had no scruple on that account
against voluntary death ; but he despised
the weak violence of suicide, in a healthy
being, both as a cowardly thing and as
an unfit interference with natural laws,
more shocking than the most hideous
result of those laws. All the greater
was his horror now, when the desire to
end his life began to fasten itself upon
him. He struggled hard with the fear-
ful thought; but he did not dare stay
where it assailed him in such palpable
shape. He faced about, and walked
swiftly across the rough downs again,
this time making for the town ; while
the horn, which quavered incessantly
up and down upon two hoarse and lam-
entable tones, hooted after him in evil
derision.

1884.]

Newport.

Frequently he paused, or sat down
on some knoll or rock, and lost himself
in undefined revery, or sheer vacancy
of numbness and desolation. He never
knew quite how he passed the day ; but
he found that it was near dark when he
came along Bellevue Avenue, on the
way home. Just by Touro Park he
suddenly encountered Roger Deering,
and was surprised by it because he had
not known that his cousin was in New-
port. They both stopped for a rapid
exchange of greetings, but both were
too preoccupied to notice at the time
what recurred to them later. Roger
was red-faced, short-haired, restless as
usual, but there was something about
him that made him look a changed man ;
and he afterwards had a curious impres-
sion that Oliphant's hair had grown
gray, but discovered that it was only
that Oliphant looked so much older.

" When did you come ? " asked Oli-
phant.

" Only to-day. Little Effie is very
ill. I 've just been again to look for the
doctor."

" Ah," said Oliphant vaguely. " What
is the matter ? "

" Diphtheria," said Roger. The re-
ply left no definite effect on Oliphant's
mind ; and the two men parted nervous-
ly, in haste, taking opposite directions.

Justin and his wife were waiting din-
ner for their friend ; and, among other
blissful little diversions of talk, they
chatted about Oliphant. His long ab-
sence convinced them that he had made
his offer, which they were expecting, to
Octavia, and had been successful ; but
they allowed themselves some good-na-
tured laughter at having, in their own
case, got so far ahead of those older lov-
ers. At last, when they heard the click
of Oliphant's key in the hall door, Jus-
tin hurried out to meet him, but shrank
back on seeing how haggard the widow-
er was.

" You look ill," Justin said, anxious-
ly. " You have tired yourself out, somt

way, have n't you ? What can we
do?"

Oliphant laid down his hat, and
seemed unable to speak, for a moment.
He moved unsteadily. "A glass of
wine, please," he presently answered.
" I am exhausted — have had nothing
to eat since morning."

The wine refreshed him, and he soon
joined the young couple, at dinner ; but
he was very grava and absent-minded.
The only thing of importance that he
said was, " I fear I shall have to leave
you very shortly, Craig. 1 must go to
New York — yes, complications have
arisen that make it necessary. I will
explain it all, by and by. Nothing to
be alarmed at. Meanwhile, you under-
stand, I shall keep everything going
here, just the same, of course ; and it
will oblige me if you and Mrs. Craig
will keep an eye on it for me."

He could not inform them definitely
when he should leave ; in fact, he had
not yet really formed any clear plan.
But the events of the following two or
three days settled this for him.

The next morning he was at first
uncertain whether he had dreamed of
meeting Roger, or had actually seen
him ; but as the fact became clear to
him, he remembered that something had
been said of Effie's illness : so he went
down to the Deerings' small cottage, to
make inquiry about it. Great were the
astonishment and concern with which
he learned that the child was very dan-
gerously attacked, and that the doctor
already considered her situation critical.

" I 'm more sorry than I can tell you,"
said Oliphant to Roger. " But at least
it 's fortunate that you are here."

" I was called by telegraph," Roger
answered, in an inert, hopeless tone.
" But what can I do, now I 'm here ?
It is these fatal unsanitary conditions
that have done the harm ; and as for us,
we are helpless — at the mercy of the
disease, if it has any mercy. Ah, if we
bad only not come to Newport ! "

Newport.

[January,

Oliphant started at the reproduction,
in those words, of the thought which
was passing through his own mind with
regard to himself.

" Well, old man, let 's try to keep
up hope," he said, forlornly seeking to
throw some cheer into his words, yet
knowing that he failed dismally.

" Yes," said Roger. He looked wan-
ly at his cousin, with an effort to ex-
press gratitude by his look. " But some-
how, Eugene, I feel pretty sure that I
shall never feel those little arms around
my neck again."

Roger moved suddenly towards the
window, leaned one arm upon the sash,
and bent his head low, as if gazing at-
tentively out of the window. He was
really sobbing.

Oliphant recalled how, not many days
before, he had been with Mary Deering
and her baby daughter, when Effie was
commanded, for some reason, to go out
of the room. " What because ? " asked
the little toddling girl, beginning to
pucker her lips ; and he had laughed at
the phrase, which was a frequent one
with her ; and the mother, being equal-
ly smitten by it, had caught up Effie,
cuddled and embraced her, and sent her
away with a smile of perfect content-
ment on her tiny, roseate features.
" What because ? " He fancied he heard
the words at this instant, pronounced in
her sweet, wavering treble, with just a
suspicion of innocent protest in it ; and
it was strange how they answered to the
sad wonderment in himself, at the mis-
ery that had befallen him and the awful
suspense in which he beheld his cousins
placed. But there was no watchful
motherly power that could come to the
relief of any of them, and dissipate their
woes.

" Of course she is conscious," he haz-
arded, hoping in some way to relieve
the father. " She knew you when you
arrived, did n't she ? "

Roger roused himself, and spoke
firmly, though his eyes were moist :

" Oh, yes ; she said ' Papa,' once. I be-
lieve they are always conscious."

That word " they," relegating her
to a general class, in a region some-
where beyond the reach of human help ;
recognizing her as already caught up
into the arms of God — to be borne
away or restored, who could tell? —
made Oliphant quiver with a new con-
sciousness of the poor fellow's terrible
position. " I do hope, Roger," he said,
" if there 's anything I can do, you '11
let me know. Mary must n't wear her-
self out."

" She will never leave Effie, Eugene,"
Roger replied. " Did I tell you she
was up all night? Never mind, my
dear fellow. It is hard for you that
you can't help us, I know ; but — I will
send for you if — if there is anything
of importance."

Oliphant could not trust himself to
stay any longer, then. " I shall come
again this evening," he said hurriedly,
and took his departure.

The voiceless contest went on at the
little cottage all day. Even Clarence
was subdued ; he crept unobtrusively
about the house, and did not know what
to make of the situation, except that the
world began to appear to him a very
different sort of place from what he
had supposed it. During the afternoon
hours the usual crush and sparkle of
the driving throng filled Bellevue
Avenue. In the quiet of this interior,
Mary could hear the genteel rumble
and patter of the horses and carriages
not far away : the parade of Anglo-
maniacs and distorted grooms, of beam-
ing beauties and insolently handsome
young men and high-stepping steeds,
was in full progress. But to the anx-
ious mother the thought of that specta-
cle had lost all its glamour ; the whole
concourse, indeed, assumed to her fancy
the likeness of a grotesquely pompous
funeral train.

Night came, and still there was the
same scene in the room where Effie lay:

1884.]

Newport.

a childish form prostrate on the bed,
feverish and suffering, with golden hair
spreading at random over the pillow —
the face already grown singularly ma-
ture with a knowledge of the awful pos-
sibilities of pain ; and three figures —
the mother, the father, and the nurse
— that went and came often, with noise-
less, imperceptible movements, minister-
ing continually, and uttering words of
soothing that could not be replied to.
For the little thing was now scarcely
able to speak, and had all that she could
do to breathe.

Atlee had called during the day, and
had been informed, at the door, of the
illness. Now he came again, early in the
evening ; but he saw no one excepting
the servant, who reported his coming,
after he had gone, to Roge'r and Mary,
just then resting for a few minutes in
another room. On the mention of his
name, husband and wife gazed silently
at each other, and significantly. As yet,
no discussion had been raised between
them regarding Atlee. and of course they
said not a word at this juncture ; but
Mary Deering sent up a brief, discon-
nected, unspoken prayer to heaven, for
pardon of the folly which seemed now
almost too senseless to require pardon.
She understood so little of Providence
that she considered her present trial as
a direct personal punishment for the ap-
parent wrong she had done Roger ; and
she imagined that a passionate inward
avowal of her misdemeanor might be
answered by the saving of her child.

Oliphant and Justin arrived later ;
and the former settled himself to wait
below throughout the night, in case he
should be needed. Hour after hour, in
the room above, the scene continued
unchanged, except that for a long time
the doctor was there, observing, think-
ing, issuing a few directions, and at last
going away without imparting any hope.
A medicinal pastil was burning slowly
on a little side-table ; the air of the
room could not be freed from a certain

deadly closeness ; the three figures con-
tinued at their post, with a still, con-
centrated energy, a peculiar exaltation
of devotedness, as if they were athletes
engaged in a struggle too intense to ad-
mit of words. Effie remained nearly
motionless ; the dry crepitation of her
tortured breath emphasized the hush of
the room, by its regular iteration. And
hour after hour the plain little interior
grew more sacred as "a centre of pa-
rental love, while the man and woman
to whom that imperiled life was dear
watched its fading, and inhaled the poi-
sonous atmosphere around them without
fear of the danger that it threatened to
them.

Once, when Effie was to take a pre-
scribed potion, she roused herself, and
looked around as if searching for aid, or
for some explanation of the awful com-
bat in which she was forced to engage.
The voice which had been so long near-
ly stifled found its way through the
choking barrier in her throat, and she
gasped painfully, " What because?"

At length, near the morning, she rose
on her couch, and called clearly for her
mother. The final moment had come,
though Roger and Mary, misled by the
last bright flicker of the vital flame,
fancied at first that she was reviving.
Suddenly, the signs of dissolution set in.
The child continued sitting up, and the
father and mother each held one of her
hands, looking anxiously towards her,
striving still to give her some comfort.
She turned her eyes, large and bright
with a new intelligence, first to one
and then to the other : but presently
their lustre began to dim ; her strength
waned; there pas?ed from her fingers
to each of the hands in which they
rested three quick, fluttering pulsations,
that did not stir the surface, but seemed
to thrill electrically from the interior
sources of the little life. The father
and mother instinctively met one an-
other's gaze, and without a syllable,
recognized that they had received the

Newport.

[January,

last greeting of a spirit about to depart.
In the midst of their agony, this mys-
terious communication gave them one
instant of supreme perception — a per-
ception that afterwards lived in their
memories tinged by emotion which, par-
adoxically, was like a holy joy.

Then Effie sank back, breathless,
quiet ; calm, calm forever ; rigid in life-
lessness, yet lying as light upon the bed
as a drift of newly fallen snow. The
white truce upon her face proclaimed
surrender and peace.

All night the wind had been sweep-
ing to and fro, bringing together the
elements of a storm. When Roger, in
the weird, gray gleam of the dawn-light,
slipped noiseless as a ghost into the nar-
row parlor where Oliphant waited, the
storm burst in a torrent of rain ; and the
trees before the house, bending in the
wind, swayed their dark-draped branches
with gestures of grief and abandonment.

XVII.

REPENTANCE.

Now that the fatal blow had fallen
upon Roger and Mary, which their
friends would so gladly have strained
every faculty to prevent, Oliphant and
Justin found that they could help. It
is the sad privilege of human beings, at
such times, to come when all is over and
prove their own essential uselessness by
performing every possible act of practi-
cal and tender aid in those details that
cover up the death in our hearts, as dust
is made to cover the actual dead. Yet
in seasons of the greatest grief at a per-
soual loss, the things we most prize
are the seemingly useless ones — sweet,
ineffectual flowers, a few helpless words,
expressing the sorrow of those whom
we love, that they cannot do anything
for us.

Vivian was quick in seconding her
husband and his friend to give what as-

sistance they could ; for, although she
had hardly known Mary Deering, her
loyalty to the friendship of Oliphant
brought into action her natural fervor
of sympathy as a young wife for the
stricken mother. Josephine, too, brought
flowers to the door of the house of mourn-
ing. Oliphaut was there at the time, and
when the box was opened an impulse led
him to hurry to the porch, whence he
saw Josephine herself moving quickly
away down the shaded street. It touched
him that she had chosen to bring the
flowers in her own hands.

But nothing was heard from Octavia ;
she made no sign ; so far as Oliphant
could tell, she might have been totally
in ignorance of the catastrophe.

Yet how could she do anything ? She
had thrown Oliphant aside in such a
way as to preclude every relation, hence-
forth, except that of the most distant
recognition. She had had but very slight
intercourse with Mary Deering, and it
would have been mainly because of her
constant association with Oliphant dur-
ing the season that she would have
made, if at all, any demonstration of
condolence. Therefore, she was entirely
debarred from showing her sympathy.
She felt a great sympathy, nevertheless.
I do not care to analyze the sources of
it, because injustice would certainly be
done in trying to formulate a state of
mind requiring so delicate a balance to
weigh it, as hers did. But I am sure
that genuine womanly compassion and
kindness were uppermost in her mood.
In presence of this tragedy, too, a sharp
light fell upon her recent conduct, which
brought out with terrifying distinctness
its ugliness and cruelty. She began to
be remorseful.

She did form a plan of sending some
flowers to Mrs. Deering, anonymously ;
but the conclusion soon followed that
such a course would be cowardly, and
merely an attempt to narcotize her con-
science. Then, hearing that funeral
services were to be held over poor little

1884.]

Newport.

Effie at old Trinity, she resolved to go
thither and attend them. But from this
as well she was restrained, by a convic-
tion that she had no right to do it.
" Why should I take advantage of this
dreadful sorrow," she said to herself,
" under the pretense that a generous
feeling of pity makes me set aside my
personal affair with Mr. Oliphant ? "

And so she sat wretchedly alone at
High Lawn, unable to take any step,
and suddenly deserted by those who had
lately been nearest to her. Josephine
did not approach her, and Perry Thor-
burn had not come to see her, for some
time past. It did not need these things,
however, to give her a true comprehen-
sion of her pitiful error. Just then when
she sprang forward and asked Oliphant
to forgive her, before he left the house,
the first seed of repentance had sprung
up in her mind, stirred to life though it
was by a false impulse of vanity and con-
ceit. But repentance had multiplied in
her, since, from a hundred other germs ;
and before she heard of Effie's illness
at all, her heart was aching for Oliphant.
She was disgusted with herself; she ut-
terly repudiated what she had done at
the prompting of a vindictive whim,
that now appeared hardly less than in-
sane.

Tragic events often come in such a
way that, while they seem to bring
about certain moral changes in us, and
we therefore refer such changes to what
we call a mere " accident," those events
are really only the afterclap, or the
tangible symbol, of what has already
taken place in our minds.

Of course I do not know why Effie
died just at that time ; but I am perfect-
ly clear that Octavia's repentance, which
was emphasized aud stimulated by this
disaster, was in no manner a consequence
of it,

The day came for the services at
Trinity. The storm had cleared ; there
was an exultant, cool vigor in the air.
Very few people, naturally, attended ;

but it had been an ardent wish of Jus-
tiu's that, if auy obsequy were held in
Newport, it should be where he could
offer his farewell to the lost spirit of
the child, in music. And he played the
Raindrop Prelude, which stole gently
through the church with a sweet, dewy
freshness and simplicity, yet fell plain-
tively upon the listeners, and made them
thiuk of gentle tears shed in a loving
resignation. Oliphant remembered too
well how he had heard that melody be-
fore ; and as it had brought to his mind
then the refreshing showers of summer,
it now suggested the sad drops of au-
tumn, that patter down a requiem for
dead hope.

The coffin was carried out. Oliphant
waited for a brief space, and as he made
his way to the street he met Josephine
Hobart. " Mr. Oliphant," she said, " I
want to say to you — though it may
seem unusual, coming from a stranger
almost, as I am — how much I feel for
your cousins. Their loss has gone to
my heart more than anything that has
happened for many a day. It must
have been a great blow to you, too."

" Yes," he answered ; " I don't know
why, but it is to me like losing a child
of my own."

I suppose she must have read the se-
cret of his other loss. Her large, soft,
unrevealing eyes were filled with a stilly,
comprehensive look of fellowship.

"You are going with them to New
York?" she asked.

"Oh, yes."

" And sha'n't we see you in Newport
again ? "

Oliphant's face grew vague aud list-
less, for an instant. " I 'm afraid not :
I don't believe I shall come back," he
said.

He had not admitted this to the
Craigs.

Before he left her he thanked her for
her gracious act of bringing the flowers.
They shook hands, and the unconscious
trembling of her touch roused in him,

Newport.

[January,

transiently, an undefined wonder at the
stress of her sensibility, which he at-
tributed wholly to the death of Effie
Deering. But as he went to join his
cousins at the New York boat, his mind
was on Octavia and the dreariness of the
fact that she was not with him, sharing
the piteous solemnity of this hour, in
which even the glad young love of Jus-
tin and Vivian had participated.

Oliphaut's care had smoothed the way
for Roger and Mary, by putting out of
sight the rougher details of the journey ;
but the night-voyage to New York was
a melancholy one for them all. They
glided away, hoVever, and were lost in
a moment to the gay, pleasure-seeking
little world in which they had lately
been active. Octavia heard the great
boat go by, with its throbbing hum of
strong paddle-wheels, and knew that it
was taking her honest, defeated lover
away from her — perhaps forever ; but
it was too late to recall him, then. In
a few minutes the sound of the depart-
ing steamer ceased to vibrate upon her
ear : she was left to the desert silence
which she had made for herself.

Change and catastrophe had over-
taken several of the people about whom
this story centres; but it must not be
supposed for an instant that such dis-
turbances of mere feeling or fortune
affected in the least the dazzling monot-
ony of festal existence in the society
around them. It is true, Dana Sweetser
seized upon the untimely demise of the
Deerings' child as a potent case in point
to fortify his position regarding drain-
age. Sundry physicians insisted that
the fatal malady was directly due to the
absence of good hygienic conditions.
Sundry others, supported by a large
number of people who had not yet died,
disputed the proposition. Every one
agreed that it was very sad for the
Deerings ; and industrious correspon-
dents, who habitually wrote and tele-
graphed catalogues of visitors and dis-
tinguished dining-room tattle to leading

journals, dropped a sentence or two of
rose-water pathos on Effie's bier. All
the proprieties were observed, and noth-
ing was done to better the drainage ; so
Dana Sweetser fell back temporarily on
the Alaska and British Columbia Inlet
Excavation.

One result of the discussion was that
the Deerings were elevated to a social
importance, in the way of talk, which
they themselves had never enjoyed.
They were utilized with soup, at din-
ners, as an introductory topic, or as a
relish with the hors d'ceuvres ; by des-
sert, however, they ceased to be men-
tioned ; and in two or three days their
misfortune was dismissed entirely.

But Octavia could not so easily get
rid of the things which had lately hap-
pened. Her time was in demand for
many engagements, day and night, and
she moved in the thickest of the whirl.
Oliphant being out of the way, more-
over, various discouraged gentlemen, who
had stood at a distance while he was
present, began to crowd round her again.
Perry Thorburn likewise suddenly re-
turned to her society, and asked her to
drive with him, every day, although he
hardly spoke to her of Josephine, any
longer. Notwithstanding all this, and
the sparkling exterior which she main-
tained, her inward distress deepened.
When alone, she was moody and dis-
pirited ; no employment sufficed to calm
her restless thoughts ; she spent hours
reviewing her association with Oliphant
and her conduct towards him. At last
she paid her intended visit to Vivian,
which she had been deferring out, of
dread at meeting the keen eyes of Oli-
phant's friends, who would be so quick
to detect the change that had come over
her, and her responsibility for the change
in him. At first she tried to discover
when Oliphant was likely to return ; but
before she left Vivian, she had made a
partial confession of the true state of
things, though with important reserva-
tions. She admitted that Oliphaut had

1884.]

Newport.

proposed for her hand, and that she had
sent him away without hope ; but she
did not tell of the poisonous thrusts she
had given him.

" I 'm so sorry," said Vivian, looking
up from a little drawing she was mak-
ing for Justin — " so sorry for poor Mr.
Oliphant ; " then she added, her blue
eyes scanning the widow's face for an
instant with complete but kindly insight,
" and sorry for you, too, Octavia."

" For me ?" Octavia blushed faintly,
and moved her head so that only the
dainty profile of her face came within
Vivian's range.

" Yes," answered the bride. " I can't
help saying so. He is such a sterling
man. Of course I don't attempt to judge
for you, but I think you may regret,
some time, what you have, done."

" But do you approve of second
marriages ? " Octavia rejoined, quickly.
" Would you be willing "...

" No," said Vivian, promptly. " At
least," she continued, putting another
touch to her sketch, " I can't conceive
of myself in that position, and somehow
I have a feeling against it. But then,
true love is too great a thing to be
bounded by my feeling, I am sure. It
comes in so many different ways . . .
And when it comes, one is iu the hands
of a higher power, which one ought to
be very careful about trifling with."

Nothing more was said, for a few mo-
ments. Afterwards, they passed to the
alienation of Vivian's mother and broth-
er, which still continued. But while
Octavia stood by the piano, making a
final remark or two, Vivian casually re-
sumed the subject of Oliphaut. " It
troubles me," she said, " that Mr. Oli-
phant does n't come back. Let 's see :
it's three — no, four days, now. Justin
wrote him a long letter, but we 've only
received one little note from him. He 's
staying at the Van Voort House, and
I 'm afraid he 's too comfortable to be
in a hurry about coming here again."

She laughed lightly, with an air of

directing a sarcasm against her own
housekeeping; but Octavia understood
her. They kissed each other, as they
parted.

Octavia went home and spent much
of the day composing a short letter to
Oliphant : —

MY DEAR MR. OLIPHANT, — I shall
not wonder if you are surprised at hear-
ing from me, for I feel that there would
be no propriety in my writing to you,
after what has happened between us —
nor should 1 wish to do so — were it
not for a single thing which no one but
myself can tell you. And even I have
discovered it only since you went from
here.

That is, that I now see how wrong
I was in my treatment of you, and how
much injustice I did you by some of
the things I said the last time we met.
What led me on, it is hard to say ex-
actly. I am not sure that I myself un-
derstand ; but even if it were possible
for me to unravel it all, perhaps you
would rather spare me the mortification,
if you had the choice.

You have been called away ; it seems
to be uncertain whether you will return
here, and if you did so we should not
be likely to meet, I suppose. This is
why I consider it best to acknowledge
my fault by writing. I do not ask you,
Mr. Oliphant, to forgive — as I self-
ishly did, that day — but only to par-
don me for not seeing sooner what I
was drifting to, and preventing it. I
cannot hope that you will think of me
otherwise than with censure, or that I
can ever recover the friendship I have
sacrificed ; but it is my duty to admit
my mistake, and to assure you of my
lasting respect. Sincerely,

OCTAVIA GIFFORD.

After dispatching this, she was more
at peace with herself. Ever since Oli-
phant's departure, she had been under-
going one very peculiar form of nervous

Hdfiz of SUrdz.

[January,

disturbance. The rotary beat of the
steamer's wheels, with the transient
pause and renewed throb as the engines
turned them, kept sounding in her ears
at the most inopportune times ; and
every morning, early, just before dawn
woke the sky, sleep deserted her, and
she lay waiting intently for the same
sound to assure her that the boat from
New York was returning.

At first it would steal to her from a
distance, through the dusk, like a deep,
unsteady breathing ; gradually, and then
more swiftly, it became defined as a reg-
ular and mighty pulsation, coming near-
er, increasing in volume : it was what
one might imagine to be the voice of a
vast shadow. Finally, it developed into
a systematic concussion, the nature of

which was unmistakable. Octavia would
rise, go to the window, and watch the
vague white shape as it rounded Fort
Adams like a floating town, with myste-
rious colored lights strung up at stem
and stern and at various other points,
or shining from the windows. There
was something spectral about it, and the
palpitation of the huge paddle-wheels
was like a shudder. Involuntarily Oc-
tavia would shudder, too, and creep back
to bed.

But to-night, since her letter had gone,
she did not shudder when she woke and
saw the boat. A soft warmth envel-
oped her heart, as if that spectral shape
had been the forerunner of some great
happiness destined to come to her in its
wake.

George Parsons Lathrop.

HAFIZ OF SHIRAZ.

MUHAMMAD SHAMSU'DDIN, better
known by the nom de plume of Hafiz,
was born early in the fourteenth centu-
ry of the Christian era. It is impossi-
ble to determine the exact date of his
birth, but the chronogram on his tomb-
stone states that he died at an advanced
age in the year of the Hijrah 791, cor-
responding to A. D. 1388. Muham-
mad (praiseworthy) was his real name
(Warn) ; Shamsu'ddm (sun of faith)
was his honorary title (lakaty ; and
Hafiz (keeper, that is, rememberer, of
the Kur'an) was his poetic surname,
the so-called makhlas (asylum) or taJc-
hallus (refuge), both significant terms
for the disguise under which an author
may mask and shield his personality.

Most Persian poets are known to us
solely by their noms de plume, which
commonly have & double meaning, and
are all the more highly prized on this
account. Sa'di (fortunate) probably as-
sumed this name out of respect for Sa'd

bin Zangi, the fifth of the Atabak sov-
ereigns, in whose reign he flourished,
and to whom he dedicated the Gulistan.
Firdausi (Paradisical) signifies also gar-
dener, which was the occupation of the
poet's father, and doubtless, too, his own
in early life. Jam! (goblet) means like-
wise native of Jam, a small town near
Herat, in Khurasan. Nizami (stringer
of pearls) may also be interpreted as re-
former of religion. In all such cases
the more commonplace signification may
safely be assumed to be the correct one,
the other explanation being merely a
witty conceit of complimentary after-
thought, the origin of which is usually
illustrated by an anecdote. Thus it is
said that at the first interview of Abu'l
Kasim Mansur with the Sultan Mahmud
the monarch was so charmed with the
poet that he exclaimed, " This man has
made our palace a paradise" (Jirdaus) ;
hence the epithet al Firdausi, the Par-
adisical. It would be superfluous to

1884.]

Hdfiz of Shirdz.

warn philologists against the question-
able and quicksandy nature of anecdotal
etymologies. 'Umar al Khayytlm (the
tent-maker) took his nom de plume from
the trade which he learned from his fa-
ther, and practiced whilst pursuing his
astronomical studies in his native village,
near Nlsh&pur. But it must be remem-
bered that bayt means tent and verse ;
and in Persian poetics the analogy be-
tween tent-making and verse-making is
carried out to the fullest extent, and curi-
ous functional correspondences are dis-
covered between the parts of the respec-
tive structures. The pavilion is a poem,
and the simple epithet al Khayyam ap-
peals to the Persian imagination as a
suggestive equivoque.

Hafiz frequently puns on his own
name. Thus he says, " Whether I am
a reverend doctor or a debauchee, what
is that to thee ? I am the keeper (liufiz)
of my own secrets and the knower of
my own times." Again he alludes to it
in the following self-praise : " By the
Kur'an which thou keepest in thy heart,
I have never heard sweeter strains than
thine, 0 Hafiz ! " In one of the idyls he
boasts that of all the Hafizes of the
earth (hdjizani jahari) not one has
equaled him in interweaving worldly
wit and wisdom with the sententious
truths of the Kur'an ; and he concludes
one of his odes with the assertion that

" 'Neath the vaulted sk}', no Hafiz ha? obtained
Such wealth of grace as I have from the Kur'aa
gained."

But notwithstanding the lofty import of
his name and the pride with which he
alludes to it, it is evident from his poems
that he drew fuller and more frequent
draughts of inspiration from the khard-
bdt (tavern) than from the Kur'an.

Native records and traditions furnish
very little positive information concern-
ing the comparatively uneventful life of
Hafiz. His intense devotion to study
and to literary pursuits rendered him
averse to travel, or to a residence at any
of the courts of them any petty and

rival dynasties which had sprung up out
of the ruins of the great Mogul empire,
and which, while diminishing the polit-
ical power of Persia by dismembering
it, favored the cultivation of poetry and
polite learning through the ambition and
emulation of each princedom to become
the chief centre and nursery of the arts
and sciences. Hafiz was held in high
honor by these sovereigns, who sent him
repeated invitations to visit them, and
sought in vain, by splendid gifts and of-
fers of patronage, to draw him away
from the quiet and retired life of a schol-
ar. Sultan Ahmad tried to prevail upon
him to come to Baghdad ; but the poet
prudently declined to become the pen-
sioner of a monarch who, although a
man of elegant tastes and fine accom-
plishments, a connoisseur of gems and
an amateur in keramics and bricabrac,
was a terror to his subjects, a tyrant
whose cruel and capricious temper was
aggravated by an excessive use of opium.
Hafiz, however, wrote him a letter of
thanks and an ode which is quite as
eulogistic as this sovereign's notorious
character would permit.

Once, at the urgent solicitation of
Mahmud Shah Bahmani, Hafiz set out
on a journey to the south of India ; but
on arriving at Hurmuz and embarking
on the ship sent for his conveyance, he
became so alarmed and nauseated by
the sea that he made some excuse for
going ashore, and returned forthwith to
Shiraz. He then addressed to the Shah
an ode in which he recalled the stormy
horrors of the sea, which he would not
encounter for all the pearly treasures in
its depths. Mahmud was much amused
at this apology, and rewarded the poet
for his good intentions with a purse of
a thousand pieces of gold.

Very different was the treatment he
received from Yahya, Shah of Yazd,
whom he actually visited, but who does
not appear to have been especially lib-
eral in largesses. Hafiz always alludes
with some bitterness to this monarch,

Hdfiz of SUrdz.

[January,

and ascribes his niggardliness to the
envy and ill-will of courtiers, whose
heads he would fain see beaten and ban-
died in the game of golf. In the fourth
fragment he contrasts this meanness with
the munificence of other princes : —

"From Hurmuz's king, unsung, unseen, a hun-
dred gifts I won;

I saw and sung the king of Yazd, but left his
courts with none."

Now and then Hafiz complains of his
native land, and even expresses a desire
to turn his steps towards Baghdad ; the
rose of Persia puts forth no bud of joy
for him ; Shiraz does not appreciate his
poesy ; and he takes no pleasure in en-
vious Fars. But these were only the
passing moods of a fine-strung and sen-
sitive nature. In reality he was strongly
attached to the place of his birth, and,
during his short sojourn in Yazd, expe-
rienced, like his contemporary Dante,
when banished from Florence,

" si come sa di sale
II pane altrui, e come 6 duro calle
Lo scendere e'l salir per 1'altrui scale."

In the sixty-eighth quatrain he paints in
vivid and realistic colors the consuming
pains and emaciating effects of nostalgia.
His love of Shiraz finds utterance in
several odes, in one of which, written
during his stay at Yazd, he vows that, on
his return, he will go straight to the
wine-shop, and there relate his adven-
tures to the music of the barbiton and
the merry clink of beakers.

Touching the domestic life of Hafiz,
we know only that he was married and
had a son, who died December 23, 1362,
as we learn from the twenty-fifth frag-
ment, where the exact date is given ac-
cording to the Muhammadan era : —

"On Rabi'ul-Awwal's sixth, one Friday morn,
My moon-faced darling from my heart was torn.
Seven hundred sixty-four years since the Flight
This hardship on me came as water light.
Can sighs and plaints and tears my peace restore
When now my life as empty sport is o'er ? " J

l By the phrase " as water light," Bicknell
means " with the facility of water." This is hard-
ly the true sense of the original : cku ab gasht ba-
nian hall hikdyali muskkil, " like water came upon

The sad event is sorrowfully recalled
in a characteristic ode ; and the thirty-
third fragment shows how tenderly the
bereaved father clung to the memory of
his child : —

"The days of sweet spring hare come; the dam-
ask and wild roses now,

With tulips, from earth arise : oh, why in the
dust then art thou ?

My tears I will shed in streams, as pour from
the spring clouds in rain ;

These tears on thy dust shall fall, until thou art
risen again."

In another ode Hafiz deplores the de-
cease and praises the virtues of his wife.
In the first verse he says, —

" The friend who made my house a home where

peris well might be,

Was, peri-like, from head to foot from ever}*
blemish free."

" In her face refinement blended with
the sweet endearments of love," and
" she wore the richest crown in the
ample realm of beauty." Hammer and
Rosenzweig both assume that this ode
was written on the death of an intimate
friend. But the couplet above quoted
seems inconsistent with such a suppo-
sition. The word yar, here translated
" friend," means literally helpmeet, and,
like the French ami or amie, is used,
as a term of affection, to denote spouse.
In Persian, however, yar may be either
masculine or feminine, and the person-
al pronoun u signifies either he or she,
there being only one form for both gen-
ders. This epicenity adds much to the
indefiniteness and gives great latitude
to the interpretation of Persian poetry,
both in a natural and in a mystical
sense. The line of demarcation between
the literal and the allegorical, the sensual
and the spiritual, is thus rendered faint
and not easily definable. This vague-
ness possesses a peculiar chai-m for the
Oriental, and by the opportunity it af-
fords of juxtapositing incongruities and
giving a fantastic turn to ideas fur-
descending the painful tale." In other words, the
news came upon him like the sudden and chilling
shock of a stream of falling water.

1884.]

Hdfiz of SUrdz.

nishes a cheap surrogate for humor.
Sometimes the poet celebrates an ab-
stract ideal, rather than a concrete em-
bodiment of beauty. Again, the beloved
object is the Divine Being, a prince, a
patron, a teacher, a boon companion, or
a friend.

It is highly probable that many of
the odes, which are repugnant to us be-
cause they are supposed to describe a
too ardent affection for men, really ex-
press a tender attachment to women.
The so-called mulamma' or party-colored
ode, of which every alternate line is
Arabic, tends to confirm this hypoth-
esis, since the Arabic pronoun, which
has a distinct form for each gender, is
here feminine. The same is true of an-
other ode written in a medley of Arabic,
pure Persian, and the dialect of Shiraz.
In his youth Ilaiiz fell passionately in
love with a maiden who was known by
the pet-name of Shakhi Nabat (shoot of
sugar-cane, or stick of candy), and who
seems to' have preferred him even to his
formidable rival, the Prince of Shiraz.
Later in life he became deeply and des-
perately enamored of a beautiful heiress
surnamed 'Arusi Jahan (bride of the
world), and sought her hand in mar-
riage ; but the young lady, though admir-
ing his genius and esteeming his char-
acter, did not return his affection, and
declined a nearer union in the bonds of
wedlock. In view of these tender ex-
periences, and perhaps many others of
a similar kind, it is hardly credible that
Hafiz, whose native city is still cele-
brated for its charming women, should
have wasted all his sweet lyrics upon
cup-bearers, minstrels, strolling Lulian,
musk-scented dandies with corkscrew
love-locks, fruity-faced wine-bibbers, and
tulip-cheeked boys.

Muhammadan law and custom, it is
true, place all sorts of absurd restrictions
upon the free and friendly intercourse
of the sexes, and the unnatural state of
society thus produced fosters unnatural
vices. Strong, manly love degenerates

VOL. LIII. — NO. 315. 7

into puling sentimentalism and pederas-
tic passion, tainting erotic poetry, and
destroying whatever pleasure we might
otherwise take in the genial conceptions
and graceful diction of the writer. Only
a vitiated taste can relish the putrescent
piquancy of this kind of literary haul
gout.

Nevertheless, there is good reason for
believing that Eastern poets have been
greatly misunderstood and misrepresent-
ed on this point, and that the disgusting
theme is treated by them less frequently
than is usually supposed. Oriental, and
especially Persian, women of the middle
class enjoy far greater freedom than
Europeans generally imagine. Although
it would be a sin against decency and
decorum for them to appear in public
unveiled, except in cases where extreme
ugliness or the wrinkles of old age might
suffice as a mask, yet it is a mistake
to suppose that they pass their lives
jealously immured within the walls of a
harem. The witty and spirited satire
entitled Kitabi Kulsum Nana (Book of
Kulsum Nana), ostensibly composed by
a conclave of Persian matrons for the
guidance of their sex in domestic and
social affairs and in the general conduct
of life, gives ample proof that the dames
and damsels of Iran are quite tenacious
enough of their prescriptive rights and
traditional prerogatives, and fully com-
petent to maintain them against all mar-
ital and paternal encroachments. The
manner in which they may assert their
liberty and pursue their pleasure in en-
tertaining guests, receiving and return-
ing visits, frequenting the bath, or pay-
ing their devotions in the mosque is
set forth with sufficient explicitness to
satisfy the most advanced advocate of
" woman's rights " in the Western
world.

Despite all her apparent languor
and love of luxurious ease, the Per-
sian woman is un esprit fort in her
own sphere. In habits of thought and
tone of feeling she has much in common

Hdfiz of Shirdz.

[January,

with the French woman. Making due
allowance for the generic difference be-
tween Oriental and Occidental culture,
the ladies of gay Shiraz and grave Is-
pahan are strikingly akin to those of •
Paris in all the salient traits of charac-
ter and qualities of mind. The same
exquisite taste and native grace ; the
same tact in asserting their indepen-
dence in all matters touching les petites
morales ; the same wit-craft and witch-
craft, which Firdausi declared to be
" matchless and supreme " in his coun-
trywomen,— in short, the same savoir-
faire and savoir vivre are peculiar to
both.

Oriental convenance would hardly per-
mit a poet to blazon in his verse the
name of his lady-love, or in any way to
give prominence and publicity to her
personality. Indeed, the proper thing
for him to do would be to disguise so far
as possible the object of his attachment,
and to dissemble the real source of his
" thought's unrest." For this purpose,
the aforementioned sexual ambiguity
of the Persian language would stand
him in good stead, and offer a most con-
venient covert under which to conceal
his passion from the ordinary reader,
whilst revealing it to her who, knowing
his secret, could read it between the
lines. Occasionally, too, he might let
it peep out, as Hafiz does in the thirty-
fifth ode, where he refers to the mir-
acle of love which has transformed his
dry writing-reed into a succulent shoot
of sugar-cane (Shakhi Nabat), yielding
sweetness more delicious than honey.
The magic which wrought this meta-
morphosis, and put sap and savor into
his hard and hollow kilk, was the power-
ful spell of the tender sentiment, which
Shakespeare declares to be the hidden
spring and inspiration of all lyric
song : —

" Never durst poet touch a pen to write
Until his ink were tempered with love's sighs."

A reminiscence of this event and of the
experiences attending it is contained in

a ghazal where the name of sugar candy
is said to excite the jealous taunts of
the " sweets " (shirindri) of Shiraz.

One of the best known and most pop-
ular of Hafiz's odes is the eighth, which
begins as follows : —

" If that Shirazian Turk would deign to take my

heart within his hand,

To make his Indian mole my own I 'd give Buk-
hara and Samarkand."

Bicknell and all the German translators,
except Nesselmann, assume that it was
addressed to some young man ; but there
is really no ground whatever for this
assumption. The Turk of Shiraz evi-
dently refers to one of those wandering
Lulian, famous for their skill in singing
and dancing, and for the beauty of their
maidens, who, in the third couplet, are
said to embroil the town by their blan-
dishments, and, true to the predatory
habits of their tribe, prey upon and
spoil the " heart's content " of the Shi-
razian youth. " Turk," as we have al-
ready observed, is the synonym of ca-
pricious charmer or cruel coquette. In
the fourth couplet the poet contrasts the
unadorned loveliness of the Lull maid
with the meretricious embellishments of
the city ladies, who would fain enhance
their fading fascinations by cosmetics
and cold cream. There is a glamour of
love which makes John see the golden
halo of a Madonna in the carroty hair of
Mary Jane; but the poet declares his
vision to be untinged by any such be-
neficent illusions and illuminations of
personal affection, of which the fair girl
is as independent as a fine complexion
is of rouge or pearl powder.

"My loved one's beauty has no need of an imper-
fect love like mine :

By paint or powder, mole or streak, caa a fair
face more brightly shine ? "

Persian women adorn their faces with
artificial moles or beauty spots of a per-
manent character by tattooing them-
selves with a mixture of chelidonium
(zard-chub, yellow wood) and charcoal.
Erasible moles are made with pitch or

1884.]

Etffiz of SUrdz.

oxide of antimony, put on by means of
a wooden pin (khati khattdi). Pulver-
ized antimony is also used to form
streaks on the eyelids, and a paste of
indigo to pencil the eyebrows. Such
streaks or lines are called khat, which
Rosenzweig incorrectly translates Flaum
(down). Muhammadan scholiasts of the
mystical school interpret the powder,
paint, moles, and streaks symbolically,
as referring to the ink, color, dots, and
lines of the Kur'an, the face of beauty
being typical of the sacred page. In
all the dry and dusty tomes of Christian
hermeneutics it would be difficult to find
absurder specimens of far-fetched, fine-
spun, and fantastic exegesis and subtlety
of scriptural exposition than are con-
stantly met with in the writings of Mus-
ulmanic doctors and commentators on
the prophet's word.

An interesting and characteristic an-
ecdote is related in connection with this
ode. When, in 1887, Timur conquered
Fars and captured Shiraz, he summoned
the aged Hafiz into his presence, and
said, " I have destroyed the mightiest
kingdoms of the earth with the edge of
my sword, in order to enrich and enlarge
the two chief cities of my native land,
Bukhara and Samarkand ; and you pre-
sume to offer them both for a black mole
on your Beloved's cheek ! " " Sire," re-
plied the poet, " it is by such acts of
reckless generosity that I am reduced to
the state of poverty in which you now
behold me." This witty retort so pleased
the Tatar chief that he immediately re-
lieved the hypothetical poverty so art-
fully hinted at, and showed the poet
many marks of favor.

Hafiz died, as we have already stated,
A. H. 791, corresponding to A. D. 1388.
In the chronogram engraved on the ala-
baster slab which covers his tomb, the
reader is told to seek the date in the
Earth of Musalla (Khaki Musalla) ; and
by summing up the numerical value of
the letters in this phrase, kh 600 -|- a 1
90 -j- 130 + a (ye)

10 = 791, we ascertain the year of his
decease. Bicknell englishes this chro-
nogram very ingeniously as follows : —

" On spiritual men the lamp of Hafiz gleamed ;

'Mid rays from Glory's Light his brilliant taper
beamed ;

Musalla was his home: a mournful date to
gain,

Thrice take thou from Mutalla's Earth Its Rich-
est Grain."

The numerical value of the letters con-
tained in Musalla's Earth is M 1000-|-
L 50-f-L 50= 1100; from this sum
take three times the numerical value of
the letters in Its Richest Grain : I 1 -|-
I 1-f-C 100 -f I 1 = 103X3 = 309,
and the result is 791. Mediaeval writers
were very fond of composing eteostics,
especially for inscriptions and epitaphs ;
but Latin, having only seven numerical
letters, did not afford them much scope
for the exhibition of their skill ; whereas,
in Persian and Arabic, every letter of
the alphabet has a numerical value.
Hafiz wrote quite a number of chrono-
grams for the purpose of commemorat-
ing the virtues and recording the death-
date of his friends and patrons. These
monumental verses have been translat-
ed by Bicknell in a most ingenious and
felicitous manner. Indeed, his version
is the only one in which any attempt is
made to preserve the chronogrammatic
character of the original ; and it is in
this peculiar feature that the whole point
of the poem centres and consists. Nes-
selmann omits them entirely as untrans-
latable.

In consequence of Hafiz's outspoken
antagonism to the popular religion, and
the skeptical and scoffing tone which
pervades his poems, the priests refused
to give him religious burial. This big-
otry naturally excited the indignation of
his friends and admirers, and a serious
strife arose between them and the ortho-
dox party. After much bitter alterca-
tion, it was agreed to consult his Divan
as an oracle, and to accept the result as
a divine decision. The volume opened
at the following couplet : —

100

Hdfiz of Shirdz.

[January,

" Wish not to turn thy foot from Hafiz on his

bier;

He shall ascend to Paradise, though steeped in
sin while here."

Accordingly the customary prayers were
perfunctorily recited at his grave, in
the little cemetery in the northern sub-
urb of Shiraz, where his body lies sur-
rounded by the flowers and shaded by
the cypresses so often celebrated in his
songs. There, too, the youth of his na-
tive city still meet, in the cool of the
day, to read his verses and quaff to his
memory

" that cup of ruby sheen,
Which opens wide the gates of times serene."

On his tombstone are embossed two
odes from the Divan, in one of which
he enjoins upon those who come to sit
at his tomb to bring with them minstrels
and the wine-cup.

The wide popularity of Hafiz's writ-
ings, and the deep root they had taken
in the hearts of all classes and condi-
tions of men, from the king to the cot-
tager, futilized all efforts to eradicate
their influence. The only alternative,
then, was to direct it into safe channels,
and to make the well-springs of his poe-
sy serviceable in irrigating and fertiliz-
ing the arid fields of Islam. The very
bigots, who had raised such a storm
about his interment, now endeavored to
convert him into an upholder of the
faith and a champion of the established
religion, by giving to his poems a sym-
bolical and spiritual interpretation, such
as our biblical expositors have given to
Solomon's passion for the beautiful Shu-
lamite. The confessed wine-bibber is
thus transformed into a seer ; and his
admiration of musky locks and dark
moles, of dimpled chins and cypress
forms, is explained as an ardent aspira-
tion of the soul after divine and eternal
beauty. Even when the poet declares
that the wine he prizes is " real, and
not symbolic," the cunning exegete is
not to be deceived by such plain state-
ments ; for if the only realities are spir-

itualities, which none can deny, real
wine must mean spiritual wine.
"Well said, old mole! canst work i' the earth so
fast?"

The more one would force him into day
by thrusting sharp-pointed facts under
his nose, the deeper he burrows under
them, losing himself in mazes of his
own making. Where Hafiz frankly ad-
mits his extreme and fatal susceptibility
to tender emotions by comparing him-
self to " the taper made to burn and
melt," the keen-eyed and subtle scholi-
ast discerns the fervent piety and con-
suming devotion of an ecstatically relig-
ious nature. It was in this style that
Hafiz's works continued to be expound-
ed and perverted for two centuries after
his death, the commentators Shami and
Sururi having attained especial distinc-
tion for their exegetical ingenuity and
temerity. In the latter half of the six-
teenth century the Bosnian grammarian
Sudi annotated the Dwan, and explained
the ghazals in a sober, rational manner,
without seeking to refine away every
carnal element and every confession of
natural feeling, and to subtilize the
glowing sensuousness of these lyrics into
vapid and vaporous allegory. Sudi, on
the other hand, with all his sturdy sense
and the real aid he affords in the solu-
tion of grammatical and lexical difficul-
ties, often carries his literalism too far,
and is prone, as he plods along, to stum-
ble upon mare's nests of quite an oppo-
site kind ; as, for example, when he in-
fers from the following quatrain that
Hafiz was afflicted with blear eyes : —

"My tear, like iny friend's cheek, had rose-red

grown;

In my eye's orbit was my heart's blood shown :
Said then my loved in most endearing tone,
' Dear friend, what makes thine eye this ailment
own V ' "

It is always interesting to discover
hints of an author's life and personality
in his writings ; but in reconstructing
the man out of such materials, imagery
• must not be mistaken for incident, nor
tropes converted into individual traits ;

1884.]

Hdfa of Sliirdz.

101

otherwise we shall get a mere patchwork
of metaphors, — a creature fantastically
put together out of the airy nothings
which his own imagination has bodied
forth, and in whom psychical affections
are confounded with physical disorders,
and the tearful humor of unrequited
love identified with rheumy eyes. Else-
where Hafiz ascribes his " bloody tear "
to " love's smart," the only remedy for
which, say the physicians, is cautery,
" the burning of thy heart." In another
verse the poet complains of " a giddy
head ; " must we therefore infer that he
was subject to vertigo or epilepsy ?

Jaini, in his sketches of eminent men,
written early in the fifteenth century,
numbers Hafiz among the great doctors
of theology, and gives him such com-
plimentary and characteristic titles as
Lisan al Shaib (tongue of the unseen)
and Tarjaman al Asrar (interpreter of
secrets). His Hafiz is hafizu kalamu-
'llah, the keeper of the word of God.
But the rigid representatives of Muham-
madan orthodoxy refused to recognize
this claim. Ottoman zealots were par-
ticularly severe and uncompromising in
their condemnation of the Divan, and
wished to have the reading of it pro-
hibited by a decree of the Shaikhu '1 Is-
lam. As the result of this agitation, the
case was submitted to the celebrated
Mut'ti, Abu Su-ud, who, in a grave and
perfunctory manner, framed his decision
so equivocally as to save his own repu-
tation for soundness in the faith, and at
the same time, prevent the interdiction
of the poet's works and rebuke the fa-
naticism of his Turkish persecutors.

In later life, Hafiz was associated with
the Sul'is, whose ascetic practices and
saintly pretensions he never ceased. to
ridicule, but with whose speculative
opinions he strongly sympathized. This
sect derived its name from the coarse
garments of wool (suf) worn by its
members. Sufi has no radical connec-
tion either with the Greek o-o<£os (wise)
or the Arabic safi (pure) ; its relation

to these words is that of a pun rather
than of an etymology. It is now used
chiefly in the sense of " wise " or " spir-
itual ; " but this is really a secondary
signification, originating in the presumed
character of those who bore the name.
'' Wool-clad " came to be synonymous
with " sage," as in England " gowns-
man " is equivalent to " scholar."

Hafiz was also, at one time, a profes-
sor of exegesis, and lectured on Zamakh-
shari's commentary on the Kur'an in a
college founded by his friend and patron,
the Vazir Kivam ud Din Hasan, whose
virtues he commemorates in several
odes. The Vazir had himself annotated
Zamakhshari, and doubtless overper-
suaded the poet to undertake the same
task. But Hafiz found little relish in
ruminating the dry subtilties of herme-
neutics, whose sapless husks yielded him
the scantiest supply of nutriment. He
was not one of those dryasdust organ-
isms that can keep up the intellectual
life by chewing on scholia, as an ass
thrives on thistles ; but a real child of
Nature, bound umbilically to her ever-
throbbing and all-sustaining heart. Thus
he exclaims, —

"Ask for a song-book, seek the wild, no time is

this for knowledge ;

The Comment of the Comments spurn, and learn-
ing of the college."

And again, —

" Where bides the minstrel ? For at once my zeal

and learning's meed
I offer for the harp and lyre, and the melodious

reed.
Of the nice points the school propounds my

heart has weary grown ;
My service for a while I 'd give to wine and love

alone."

In one of the fragments he suggests the
propriety of a stipend for his profes-
sional services, a point which the Vazir,
in his zeal for sacred exposition, seems
to have overlooked. Nevertheless, Ha-
fiz's lyric muse did not disdain to visit
him even in his chair of hermeneutics.
It was in the quiet retirement of this
school that he recited many of his poems
to his pupils, to whose youthful euthusi-

102

Hdfiz of SMrdz.

[January,

asm and care we owe the first collection
of them in a Divan.

Hafiz never tires of denouncing the
pietists and devotees of his day. He
compares them to jugglers, who live by
imposture, and prey upon the credulous
and simple-minded, and characterizes
them as " men with short sleeves aud
long fingers." The robe of the dervish
is the raiment of deceit, and the monk's
cowl the covert of guile. The wine-
bibber is uniformly set in favorable con-
trast to these sanctimonious hypocrites.

" Better the drunkard void of fraud and wiles
Than virtue's braggart who by fraud beguiles."

Since indulgence in wine is opposed by
religious fanatics, who make a mask of
sobriety, it becomes associated with the
honest and generous qualities in which
the blue-clad bigot is notoriously want-
ing.

" My heart abhors the cloister and the false cowl,

its sign :

Where is the Magian's cloister,1 and where is
his pure wine V "

According to Persian tradition, Jam-
shid, the founder of Persepolis, was the

" Bacchus that first from out the purple grape
Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine."

This famous monarch was excessively
fond of grapes, and always kept a quan-
tity in a jar.- One day, on returning
from the hunt, he found his favorite
fruit in a state of fermentation. The
pungent flavor of the juice excited his
suspicions of foul play : he therefore
poured it into a demijohn labeled " Poi-
son," and placed it aside until he should
discover the author of the misdeed.
Soon afterwards, a lady of the court,
who suffered severely from chronic ner-
vous headache, resolved, in a fit of des-
peration, to put an end to her existence.
As she wandered about, " distraught
and full of pain," she found the dem-
ijohn, and drank freely of its contents.
Thereupon she fell into a deep sleep,

l Dairi muyhdn, the tavern, the temple of the
sincere and single-minded, in contrast to the mon-
astery, the abode of vile and venal souls.

from which she awoke so refreshed that
she continued from time to time to sip
the beneficent bane, until it was all gone.
The complete recovery of the lady from
her inveterate ailment led to an inves-
tigation of the cause, and she finally
confessed by what delicious potion her
health had been restored. Orders were
immediately given for the fermentation
of more grapes, and the king and his
courtiers grew merry and mellow, as
they imbibed the wonderful beverage,
which was henceforth known as zahri
khush, or sweet poison.

The fondness of the Persians for
wine has always been a great and scan-
dalous offense to rigorous Musulmans.
Thus Hafiz, in The Cupbearer's Book
exclaims, —

" If lives the body when the soul is gone,
The heart bereft of wine can still live on."

The loveliest forms and phenomena of
earth and sky, the dawn, the dewdrop
on the tulip, the hues and fragrance of
flowers, all suggest the cheering and in-
ebriating cup, and invite to indulgence.
When his last hour comes, he hopes
that he may be found with a goblet in
his hand, and be borne straight from the
tavern to the sky ; and desires that after
death his clay may be fashioned into
flagons, and his skull, in the form of a
beaker, continue to be a source of in-
spiring and elevating influence. In this
wish 'Umar al Khayyam anticipated
Hafiz by three centuries, when he de-
clared that at the sound of the " wake-
ful trump " his dust would rise up be-
fore the door of the wine-shop ; and the
old Anglo-Latin poet, Walter Mappes,
a con temporary of Khayyam, begins his
well-known drinking-song with the same
conceit : —

"Milri est propositum in taberna mori;
Vinum sit appositum morientis ori."

Persian vintners are usually infidels,
sometimes Christians, but chiefly Ma-
gians, since no true believer would vend
a drink denounced by the Prophet as
the mother of woes. Under love of

1884.]

Hdfiz of Shirdz.

103

wine, therefore, might be easily con-
cealed a tendency to heresy, and espe-
cially an attachment to old Persian fire-
worship. Drinking the blood of the
grape, under such circumstances, would
have a sacramental significance. It
would be not merely a physical enjoy-
ment, a pleasure of the palate, but also
a religious act, a protest of the con-
science, a solemn declaration of devotion
to the faith of the fathers. Thus the
tavern becomes a temple of the Magi, a
place filled with the light of God ; the
vintner is a high-priest of the Magi,
whose wisdom is superior in kind to that
of " mine host of the Garter Inn," as
the ministrations of the Said differ es-
sentially from those of a " drawer in
the Boar's Head Tavern."

In every country whem there is a
state religion, all deviations from it, all
sects and schisms, are regarded as so
many revolts against spiritual tyranny,
and so many assertions of intellectual
liberty. This is the position held in
Muhammadan Persia by Christianity
and Magianism, both of which are in-
clined to strain a point in praise of wine,
merely because the Kur'an prohibits
it. Thus wine-bibbing becomes a syno-
nym of free -thinking. The wine -shop
is something more than a common tap-
room, and combines the cabaret with
the chapel of dissent. The reader who
fails to perceive this esoteric significance
and underlying symbolism will natural-
ly wonder at the poet's constant and
rather monotonous glorification of wine,
and soon weary of it.

The intimate connection between fire-
worship and wine-drinking is suggested
by Hafiz when he speaks of wine as
the " fulgent fire," which Zarathushtra
sought in the depths below ; and in the
same poem he exclaims, —

' 0 Saki, give me that imperial bowl,
Which opes the heart, exhilarates the soul.
By ' bowl ' I image the eternal wine ;
By ' wine ' I signify a trance divine."

In the vocabulary of Sufism, the

Saki (cup-bearer) stands for the Holy
Ghost, the source of spiritual enlight-
enment and inspiration ; and to " stain
the prayer-mat with wine "is to imbue
the heart with divine love. Indeed, this
symbolism is not confined to Persia and
the East, but pervades, though less effu-
sively, the poetry and religion of every
people. Bread and wine, the cornfield
and the vineyard, Demeter and Dionysus,
are universal emblems and personifica-
tions of human sustenance and cheer.
Religious exaltation and enthusiasm, the
rapture of the sibyl and the ecstasy of
the saint, are suggestive of vinous in-
toxication. When the disciples were
full of the Holy Ghost, on the day of
Pentecost, ' they were thought to be
drunk ; and in the Christian ritual the
blood of the grape is associated with
the supreme moment and sacrificial con-
summation of the world's spiritual re-
demption.

The Persians call wine utishi raz, the
fire of the vine, and the Greeks called
Dionysus Trvpiyenys, the fire-born, — an
epithet which does not need for its ex-
planation the silly story of the untimely
birth of the god through the fright of his
mother Semele, at the sudden apparition
of her lover, Zeus, in the form of light-
ning.

In the Lieder des Mirza-Schaffy, Bo-
denstedt expresses a thoroughly Persian
thought, when he says that wine is de-
grading or ennobling, according to the
nature of him who takes it. ' Where is
it said that wine is wrong for all ? "
exclaims 'Umar al Khayyam.

"'Tis lawful for the wise, but not for fools."
It was to the " Magian Shaikh," who
read the secrets of the sky in Jamshid's
magic cup, that Hafiz appealed in the-
ological perplexities and questions of
casuistry. Weariness of robe and rosary,
and willingness to pawn his cowl for an
intoxicating draught and to souse his
book into the wine-butt, are explained
by Sufi exegetes as expressing his dis-
gust for outward ceremonial in worship

104

Hdfiz of Shirdz.

[January,

and barren traditionalism in theology;
whilst under the imagery of riot and
revelry is represented spiritual aspira-
tion. In Sufi phraseology the musky
locks of the loved one are emanations
and expansions of divine glory, redolent
with celestial perfume. The closest union
and most sacred covenant of the soul
with the Supreme Spirit are symbol-
ized by betrothal and nuptial ties. The
purest and most poetic expression of
this phase of Sufism is found in Sa'di's
Bustan, especially in the third chapter,
and in the Masnawi of Maulana palalu-
d-Din Rumi.

Doubtless some of Hafiz's odes, con-
vivial songs as well as love-poems, ad-
mit and even require a mystical inter-
pretation. In the one hundred and
eighty-sixth ghazal, for example, bright
cheeks, alluring dimples, languishing
eyes, and wanton ringlets are intended
to typify divine attributes. In such
cases the two elements are so closely
blended that it is hard to separate them,
and to distinguish the natural from the
figurative, the earthly from the heaven-
ly, the warm hues of carnal affection
from the glowing fervor of religious ad-
oration. But in the majority of Hafiz's
poems the sense is plain enough, and
the keenest scholastic subtilty would
find it as difficult to detect an esoteric
meaning in them as to discover sublime
mysteries and theosophics in the odes of
Horace, the lyrics of Anakreon, or the
songs of Burns.

Indeed, there is in Hafiz a constant
tendency to reverse the symbolical meth-
od ; instead of spiritualizing objects of
sense and making them the vehicle of
religious sentiment, he is fond of carnal-
izing sacred things, and using them to
justify natural appetites and to exalt
earthly affections. The Mecca to which
he pilgrims is the vintry ; his Ka'ba is
the wine-cup; the arch of Mihnib, which
attracts and directs his devotions, is
" an eyebrow's bow." When 'Umar al
Khayyam was urged to renounce the

pleasures of this life in order to inherit
the joys of the life to come, he replied
that a little cash in hand was better
than any amount of credit. Hafiz, too,
was not disposed to wait for the sky to
fall in order to catch larks. " Strive al-
ways after ready bliss," was his motto.
The fowler who lays his snare for the
phcEiiix will take only empty air. In
many passages he compares the stature
of his beloved to the graceful cypress,
which he prefers to the Sidrah and the
Tuba, and all the celestial trees that
afford shade and refreshment to the
elect in Paradise.

Hafiz often gives a facetious turn to
texts from the Kur'an, and makes jest-
ing allusion to its chief doctrines. Thus,
in reply to the reproaches of the zealot,
he adduces the zealot's creed, and ex-
cuses his propensity to tippling by ap-
pealing to the dogma of predestination,
which is one of the fundamentals of
Islam. On the Day of Alast, the All-
Wise One foreordained him to love wo-
man, wine, and song ; and what is feeble
and short-sighted man that he should
presume to thwart eternal providence
and annul the divine decrees ? He takes
particular delight in playing upon the
catch-words of the sects and the termi-
nology of pious cant : —

" Come, Hafiz, to the house of wine, and I will

show thee there

Thousands of men, who, ranged in line, rejoice
in answered prayer."

Less irreverent, of course, to the Mu-
hammadan than to the Christian mind
would be the comparison of the power
of wine or of love to the resuscitating
breath of Jesus that can restore the dead
to life.

Hafiz sums up his ethics in a short
and comprehensive couplet intelligible
even to the meanest understanding : —

" Harm no one; otherwise do all thou wilt:
My statutes recognize no other guilt."

This simple rule of universal kindness
implies also the largest tolerance. Pan-
theism has no motive for proselytism

1884.]

Hdfiz of SMrdz.

105

and no place for persecution. Diversity
of speculative opinion is not an ele-
ment of discord, but a source of pleasing
variety and a stimulus to intellectual
effort.

" For none in our drunk rev'lers' sect inquire
Who worship matter and who worship tire."

"One to love's eyes the cell and wine -house

seem;

Whate'er the spot, the Friend's bright features
beam.

" Where in the convent pious works abound,
The cross and the monk's cloister bell are
found."

In the same spirit, Khayyam asserts
his superiority to sectarian shibboleths,
and reverences mosques and pagodas,
synagogues and churches alike, as holy
temples and " true homes of prayer."

But while Persian poets and mystics
were proclaiming these liberal ideas, and
opening world - wide the doors of spir-
itual hospitality, in Europe popes and
bishops, synods and ecclesiastical coun-
cils, were rooting out heresy with sword
and fagot, and the chief countries of
Christendom were ablaze with the bale-
ful fires of the Inquisition. It was
Khayyam, too, who said that of all the
dogmas taught by the three and seventy
sects of Islam he accepted only one, —
the love of God. And for centuries
after him sentiments and principles like
these, which the comparative science of
religion has but recently made familiar
to the Western mind, were repeated and
enforced by seers and sages, until they
became a part of the aphoristic and ax-
iomatic wisdom of the East.

Like all Eastern poets, Hafiz is ex-
ceedingly repetitious, both as regards
ideas and imagery. The Greeks used
to say, Give us your fine things two or
three times. But the Persians would
deem it undue rigor and irksome re-
straint to be limited to this moderate
amount of iteration. They never tire
of a fine thing, and reproduce it on every
possible occasion. This is preeminently
true of the lyric poet, who weaves his

verses out of the staple of his internal
states, as the spider spins its web out of
its own vitals. This species of poetry is
therefore intensely subjective, and con-
fined to a narrow circle of emotions ;
and the perpetual harping on one string
makes even the best of the Divans rath-
er tiresome as consecutive reading.

Another characteristic of all classes
of society in Persia is a notable love of
nature ; not so much in its wild and
rugged aspects as in its milder and more
cultivated forms. They have a passion
for gardens and flowers, quiet groves
and the soft cadence of murmuring
brooks ; and the sentiment of such scenes
pervades all their poesy, and is liable
to surfeit the Occidental reader by its
monotony of sweetness. Possibly, when
Hafiz sang of the chaman, he may have
had in mind, not a parterre, but a green
field or stretch of lawn ; features which
to-day have almost wholly disappeared
from the Persian landscape, having
been supplanted by patches of waving
corn, bright with blue-bottles, poppies,
and grape hyacinths. All these phenom-
ena of the world of sense are brought
into direct and living relations with the
world of the imagination, and made to
portray the affections and to reflect the
desires of the mind. The garden bor-
rows its fragrance and the zephyr its
perfume from the amber-scented locks
of the loved one ; the rose takes its col-
or from her cheeks, and the narcissus
steals its languor from her eyes. Some
of the metaphors drawn from this source
are quite apt and original, as when the
spark of love, which has fallen into and
indelibly branded the poet's heart, is
compared to the deep puce mark which
the wild tulip of Shiraz bears in the
centre of its white petals.

In the twenty-eighth quatrain " the
musk -moled maiden's heart is seen
through her transparent breast, like a
pebble in a limpid stream." Shake-
speare puts the same words into the
mouth of love-sick Lysander : —

106

Hdfiz of Shirdz.

[January,

" Transparent Helena! Nature shows her art
That through thy bosom makes me see thy
heart."

It is curious to note such coincidences,
which are the results, not of accident,
but of intellectual affinity. Thus Ham-
let asks, "Why may not imagination
trace the noble dust of Alexander till
he find it stopping a bung-hole ? " So
Hafiz discovers the head of the same
monarch in the tiles on the roof. And
Khayyam saw mangled by a potter's
whe^l

" Feridun's fingers and Kai Khosru's heart."
He recognizes in the graceful handle of
the wine-jug an arm that
"Has many a time twined round some slender
waist; "

and bids the reader tread lightly on the
common dust, since perchance
'"Twas once the apple of some beauty's eye."
Even the lump of clay cries out to him
who fashions it : —

" Use me gently, pray ;
I was a man myself but yesterday."

In grammatical construction the verses
of Hafiz are models of simplicity and
perspicuity. From the standpoint and
standard of European criticism, his chief
defects, which he shares with all Per-
sian poets except Firdausi, are the want
of rhetorical sobriety and symmetry ; a
fondness for obscure allusions and far-
fetched conceits ; aii exuberant and un
chastened imagination, prone to run riot
in mixed metaphors, and to spin them
out until they become so attenuated as
to break down by their own weight. His
motley tropes, instead of illustrating the
subject, often tend to confuse the reader
by the protean facility with which they
change their shapes, and glide from one
image into another.

On the principle of sympathy through
external similitude, which prevails so
largely in ancient medicine, especially
in the branch of philter lore, he speaks
of his " pine-cone heart " as longing for
reunion with the " pine-like stature " of
his friend. Even indigo is personified

as an archer, because it " draws a bow "
over the arch of the eyebrows, from
which the fatal arrows of love are sped.
An oft-recurring figure of speech, de-
rived from the Oriental pharmacopeia,
It to call red lips " ruby tonic," the ca-
tholicon which can heal all his ailments.
He compares the lock resting on the
cheek, and turning up at the end to a
hook, which he longs for as he takes to
the sea. The wee mouth of his maiden
" sweetly proves " the truth of the atom-
ical philosophy. He dwells with glee
upon her tiny waist, " no thicker than a
hair." Everywhere in the Orient large
hips as well as a slender waist are re-
garded as essential to female beauty.
In the Indian drama of Sakuntala, the
royal lover recognizes the footprints of
the heroine by the depth to which her
heels sink into the white sand, owing to
the weight of her hips. Amru, the au-
thor of the sixth Mu'allakat, describes
his lady-love as slim and tall, " with
gracefully swelling hips, which the door
of the tent is scarcely wide enough to
admit." In the Anvari Subaili of Hu-
sain Vaiz, the enthusiastic lover likens
the hips and waist of his sweetheart to
a mountain (kuh) suspended by a straw
(hah). German minnesingers had the
same ideal of female beauty so far as
the waist is concerned. Wolfram von
Eschenbach says of a fair damsel, —

" You know how ants are wont to be
Around the middle slight and small :
Still slimmer was the maiden tall."

The Greeks possessed a finer sense of
symmetry than to imagine that a wo-
man should be patterned after a wasp
or an emmet in order to be a model of
beauty.

Some of Hafiz's metaphors strike us
as rather ignoble. It is not pleasant to
think of a young girl's long eyelashes
as daggers dripping with blood nor to
see ants in the soft down of her cheeks.
The dimple in the chin, shining with
perspiration, is a well-pit, into which
the passionate pilgrim is liable to fall.

1884.]

Hdfiz of SJdrdz.

107

Hafiz's allusion to his maiden, with her
moon-face and moist dimple, recalls
Heine's description, in his Harzreise, of
" the large, voluminous lady, with a red
square mile of face, and dimples in her
cheeks which looked like spittoons for
Cupid." It would be difficult to decide
which of the comparisons is more de-
famatory of this most delicate and ef-
fective feature of female beauty. The
Persian is certainly more matter of fact,
and lies under the disadvantage of not
intending to be funny.

Another peculiarity of Oriental poets,
always offensive to the most refined Oc-
cidental taste, is the habit of extravagant
self-praise, in which they constantly in-
dulge. True, the same tendency shows
itself sporadically in European litera-
ture. Shakespeare was fully conscious
of his genius, and knew the enduring
worth of his "powerful rhyme." In
language almost identical with that of
the Sonnets, Firdausi, in his satire on
Shah Mahmud, extols his own epos, the
Shah Niinia ; and Sa'di, in the introduc-
tion to the Gulistau, expresses like con-
fidence in the lastingness of his work.

In a Persian or Arab poet, self-praise
is not an individual idiosyncrasy, and
does not necessarily imply excessive
self-conceit. The very structure of the
ghazal requires the introduction of the
poet's name in the final couplet, and this
mention of himself is expected to be
laudatory. Indeed, the author must ex-
ercise considerable ingenuity and fertil-
ity of invention in order to avoid too
great monotony of self -commendation.
Heaven, our poet tells us, flings down
upon his poetry her " clustered Pleia-
des," in recognition of the superiority
of his pearls of song to her pearly gar-
land of stars, just as opera fanatics
throw laurel-wreaths to a popular prima
donna and Spanish ladies cast their
necklaces at the feet of a favorite torero.

Self-encomiums (fakhnydf) are treat-
ed in Arabian poetics as a distinct
and well-defined class of compositions, as

legitimate as elegiacs or erotics. AVe
have no more right to infer that those
who cultivate this kind of poetry are
exceptionally vain than that every au-
thor of a drinking-song is a toper, every
composer of martial music a hero, and
every writer of madrigals a love-lorn
swain. A fair specimen of this auto-
eulogy is the following, from Hafiz : —

" The beauty of these verses baffles praise :
What guide is needed in the solar blaze?
Extol that artist by v, hose pencil's aid
The virgin, Thought, so richly is arrayed.
For her no substitute can reason show,
Nor any like her human judgment know.
This verse, a miracle, or magic white —
Brought down some voice from Heaven, or Ga-
briel bright ?

By me as by none else are secrets sung,
No pearls of poesy like mine are strung."

Making due allowance for Oriental
hyperbole, every student of Persian lit-
erature will indorse the opinion here
expressed. The age of Hafiz was that
of a brilliant galaxy of poets, the golden
age of lyric song. Kamal (perfect), the
author of Zephyrs of Friendship (Na-
fhat al Uns), and Aimad, surnamed the
" faultless," on account of the finish of
his style and the purity of his senti-
ments, were his contemporaries. But
the united suffrages of his countrymen
and of European scholars have assigned
to Hafiz the foremost place in Persian
letters, and a permanent place among
the world's great poets. It is not, how-
ever, by an enumeration of isolated
qualities that an adequate estimate can
be formed of his rare and peculiar gen-
ius. He is not to be measured, much
less exhausted, by an anthology of ele-
gant extracts. There is in him, also, a
certain subtile and precious element and
nimble essence which evades the cold
edge of the keenest critical analysis.
"\Vhat he says of the manifold and in-
definable sources of the lover's passion
is equally true of the fascination exer-
cised by his own poetry : —

" 'T is a deep charm which wakes the lover's

flame,
Not ruby lip, nor verdant down its name.

108

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

[January,

Beaut}' is not the eye, look, cheek, ana mole ;
A thousand subtle points the heart control."

In his works we find preeminently that
glowing interfusion and fruitful espousal
of thought and phrase which is the su-
preme achievement of the creative im-

agination, and which Goethe represents
as the wedlock of word and spirit : —

Let the word be called the bride ;
Bridegroom let the spirit be !
At this marriage-feast abide
Those who prize, O Hafiz, thee.

E. P. Evans.

A SEQUEL TO MR. WASHINGTON ADAMS, IN A LETTER FROM
MR. MANSFIELD HUMPHREYS.

MY friend Mansfield Humphreys has
written me the following letter, which,
with some remorse of conscience, — in
the old English phrase, " again-bite of
inwit," — I lay before the readers of
The Atlantic : —

TOPPINGTON PRIORY,

21st October, 1883.

MY DEAR MR. GRANT WHITE, —
Everybody has gone to church, this
morning, as usual ; but as I have been
there frequently, I made an excuse, and
remained at home: not, however, chiefly
for the reason which I have assigned,
but that I might write you this letter.

Others may pardon you for giving in
The Atlantic of July, 1883, an account
of that luncheon party at the Priory ;
whether I can do so, I have not yet quite
determined. The story has been read
here and commented upon quite freely ;
and an Edinburgh publisher has actually
issued the thing as a little book. All
this would be well enough ; but it seems
that you so awkwardly worded your
story that some people have suspected,
and indeed do actually believe, that there
is no Mr. Washington Adams, and that
I — I, Mansfield Humphreys, — am the
" real American " who was the object
of interest on that occasion. Grievous
are the wounds received at the hands of
a friend ; and your careless pen has
scratched me deeply. What will my
clients and my fellow directors think of
my figuring in such a masquerade ? And

to what grave misconstruction on the
part of our friends at the Priory did you
expose me by your thoughtless ambigu-
ity of phrase ! Pardon me for suggest-
ing that it would be well for you to
serve a brief apprenticeship in a law-
yer's office, that you may learn to ex-
press yourself with clearness and pre-
cision.

Well, that will do, I suppose, for an
indignant protest ; but as to the truth
of the affair, there is of course no need
for any words between you and me. I
had half a dozen hearty laughs at the
expense of Professor Schlamm and the
rest, with some compunctions, I will con-
fess, for bringing such a bear as Mr.
Washington Adams into the garden of
our charming hostess ; of whose fine
womanly personality you must remem-
ber that I, like you, was before entire-
ly ignorant. For the rest I cared little,
except perhaps for Lord Toppingham
himself, who, notwithstanding a slight
stiffness of the mental joints (with all
his liberalism), is one of the cleverest
and sweetest-natured men 1 ever met.
But she, the countess, was so serenely
gentle, so divinely complaisant, with all
her lovely dignity of mien, that I was
more than once almost disconcerted, and
came near breaking down. I was kept
up by the consciousness of the eyes of
the motley crowd around me. If she
and Lord Toppingham only had been
present, I verily believe that I should

1884.]

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

109

have fallen at her feet,1 confessed my im-
posture, and begged her pardon. Would
she have given it ? You shall see. But
it is one thing to play a practical joke
and enjoy it, and quite another to have
one's escapade paraded to the world. I
have, however, this consolation : you are
the chief sufferer, and have already been
pretty roughly handled. The British
lion is apt to growl and lash his sides,
and sometimes those of other people,
when he discovers that men have been
laughing at him behind sober faces.

A few days after you had left this
neighborhood, I determined to call at the
Priory. I rode over ; and on sending
up my card, I was soon ushered into
Lady Toppingham's morning parlor, —
a very different sort of place from the
corresponding room at Boreham Hall,
as you described it. Although it was
about as large as an ordinary Boston or
New York drawing-room, it produced
a sense of mingled daintiness and cozi-
ness. Why or how, I can hardly tell,
for there was nothing unusual in it, —
nothing that you would not find in a
similar room in New England or New
York ; but, as in many such rooms there,
gentlewoman and elegant comfort were
written all over it in alternating inter-
woven characters. Lady Toppingham
rose and gave me her hand, which, please
remember, if you should ever venture
to write again about the manners and
customs of the inhabitants of this island,
is, contrary to the common notion, the
custom here, unless the caller does not
appear as a social acquaintance, and the
interview is more or less of a business
character. I must confess that I enjoy
this distinction, and wish that, with some
other habits of life in England, it could
be carried into " the States."

A nursery-maid was standing half be-
hind my hostess's chair, and on the floor,
playing about her feet, was a boy-baby,
about a year and a half old, so radiant
with all glory possible to infancy that

1 On the margin : "metaphorically, you know."

I can only call him splendid. To antici-
pate a little, in a few minutes he was ou
my knee, alternately cooing and crowing
and kicking and pulling my whiskers,
until, after a few fond maternal remon-
strances, he was sent back to the nurse-
ry. I found him as firm and as springy
as a just-landed trout.

" Lord Toppingham is out this morn-
ing, shooting, with my cousin, Captain
Surcingle," said my hostess, as I took
my seat. " I am sorry it should have hap-
pened so : he does n't go out quite so
often as most men do here. He will re-
gret it himself. We hoped to have the
pleasure of seeing you ere this at the
Priory. You have not called before, I
believe ? " with a slight, searching look
that flashed into my eye like a reflection
from a mischievous boy's bit of looking-
glass.

" No, madam ; unless, indeed, I may
be considered to have called after a fash-
ion, when I took the liberty of giving
my card to Mr. Washington Adams."

" Mr. Adams is a friend of yours ? "

" I can hardly call him a friend. In-
deed, I am inclined to think that I have
many better friends than he is. Hardly
more than a slight acquaintance, I should
say ; for I am sure that many persons
know much more of me than he does,
and much more of him than I do."

" Then I may venture to say, without
at all implying that his call was unin-
teresting, that he is a very extraordinary
person. Have you many men of his
sort in the States ? "

" Too many of his sort, I must con-
fess ; although not many quite so pro-
nounced in style as he is. I fear you
may have found him somewhat rude."

" Not in the least, if rudeness con-
sists in offensive intention. He was very
well meaning, very considerate, and very
self-possessed. But he appeared to be
quite ignorant of what we should call the
ways of society. Did you ever happen
to see Mr. Adams in society, Mr. Hum-
phreys ? "

110

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

[January,

" Indeed, madam, I can't say that I
ever did ; and you must therefore par-
don me if you were a little shocked."
This I said in a careless, smiling way ;
but I felt that the feminine toils were
closing round me. For that, however,
I was prepared in a measure, or I should
not have ventured into the lioness's den.
For Lady Toppingham alone, I believe,
of all the company, was quite sure that
something was wrong.

You may wonder that such an extrav-
agant creature as my Mr. Washington
Adams, one who in Boston or Philadel-
phia, or hardly in Chicago, could not be
found with a lantern, should pass muster
among people of ordinary information,
in any part of Europe, as a representa-
tive American, on five minutes' inspec-
tion. But if you do so wonder, you
merely show that you have failed to ap-
prehend the vagueness of their notions,
and their credulity about us, and their
fidgety curiosity to find something in
" America and the Americans " which
is new, peculiar, and above all unpleas-
ant. You are such a lover of England
and English folk, and you were treated
with such kindness here by every hu-
man creature that you met, even casu-
ally as a stranger, that this assertion as
to their ignorance of our country and
ourselves, and as to their feeling to-
ward them, may be received by you with
some incredulity.1 And if you judge
them only by certain narrow but prom-
inent classes, you have some reason for
your incredulity. The superior part of
the men in political life, the publicists,
the traveled and intelligent among the
mercantile and manufacturing class, and
above all the journalists, have passed
out of this dense stage of ignorance ;
but only to enter into a confusing twi-
light, the result of a struggle between
limited knowledge and unlimited prej-
udice. They see ; but they are color-

l Not at all. My good friend Humphreys for-
gets certain passages of the book, in which that
admiration which he and others have found so
glowing is tempered by the expression of opinions

blind to the few and faintly character-
istic traits of the men and women who
are the real products and the real rep-
resentatives of generations of American
training. They start with the postulate
that what is English cannot be Amer-
ican : although why it cannot, none of
these uneasy mortals have yet been able
to show. From their false starting-
point, they of course proceed to false
conclusions. No one will dispute that
there are certain differences in the gen-
eral aspect of the two peoples (in so far
as either of them can be said to have a
general aspect), in their manners, their
habits, and their speech ; but these vary-
ing shades are merely on the surface,
and are caused by varying circumstances ;
most of them transitory as well as su-
perficial ; none of them tending to any
change of nature. What will be the
result of the great emigration from Ire-
land and from Germany, which has
taken place mostly within your and my
remembrance, and the settlement of the
Far West, also the work of the last
twenty-five or thirty years, remains to be
seen ; and I leave it out of the question,
as I did in my railway talk with Lord
Toppingham. But here I am, lecturing
you again, just as I lectured him. I
doubt that you will be half so courte-
ously tolerant of me and my fad as he
was.

To return to my lady and her gentle
catechising. I ^aw at once that in apolo-
gizing for Mr. Washington Adams's pos-
sible failures in conduct, I had opened
a seam in my armor. She saw it, too,
and instantly took advantage of it. ,

" Why, Mr. Humphreys, if you never
saw Mr. Adams in society, what reason
have you for supposing that he did n't
know how to behave himself ? Are we
to assume that there is danger of that
with all Americans, except," with a
slight, gracious bend of her head, " Mr.
much like his own, and, moreover, by the record
of evidence of just such ignorance as he himself
has found.

1884.]

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

Ill

Mansfield Humphreys ? " This without
even a curve of her lip or a twinkle of
her eyelid.

" Indeed, notwithstanding your keen-
edged compliment, 1 am willing to own
that there are a great many of my coun-
trymen who would be very much out
of place in the drawing-room or at the
dinner -table of Toppington Priory.
Are there not as many of your own fish
who would be just as much out of water
here ? Would you like to cast out a
drag-net into the streets of London, or
*the waste places of England, and haul
into the Priory whatever you might
catch?"

" No, certainly not ; but that 's quite
impossible with us, you know," smil-
ing, but sitting a little straighten Then,
with a slight increase of impressiveness
in manner, " But you seem to have a
strange mixture of knowledge and of
ignorance about this — this American
— gentleman whom you introduced to
Lord Toppingham. You fear, and you
doubt, and you talk about drag-nets,
and " —

" Pardon me, madam," I broke in ;
"but loosely as we all use that word
'gentleman,' nowadays, I cannot but
protest when I hear a gentlewoman
speak of a creature like Mr. Washing-
ton Adams as an American gentleman."

" You admit, then, sir, that you intro-
duced to Lord Toppingham and to his
wife a person who is not a gentleman,
even in America ! " As my fair hostess
said this, she bent upon me a look full of
confident intelligence and, as I thought,
of gentle triumph ; but that may have
been merely because I felt that I was
beaten. I remember my grateful con-
sciousness that there was no severe dis-
pleasure in her clear blue eyes. But
my time had come.

" Lady Toppingham," I said, rising,
" I can withstand you no longer. I am
here to make a confession and an apol-
ogy. Unless a bit of acting with a bet-
ter purpose than a mere joke degrades

me from the position with which you
have just honored me, I introduced to
your society no one who was unworthy
of it. I was Mr. Washington Adams."

My hostess rose quickly, with a flush
upon her face, saying, " And you came,
sir, a stranger, into this house under a
feigned name, to hoax an English earl,
and — his wife, and their guests ! Look-
ing at you as you stand there, it is hard
to believe it."

" Unhappily, madam, it is true : un-
happily, if it brings upon me your dis-
pleasure. Yet I came not exactly as a
stranger. You probably know that I
had had the pleasure of a morning's
talk with Lord Toppingham, the agree-
able result of which to me was the
honor of an invitation to the Priory on
my own poor merits, and when he did
not know that I bore a letter of intro-
duction to him from Dr. Tooptoe. As
to my little masquerade, for that I must
throw myself upon your mercy. I re-
garded it as hardly more than a con-
tinuation, with a living illustration, of
our colloquy on the rails. I was tempt-
ed to show Lord Toppingham and his
friends a specimen of the only sort of
American which they, or at least most of
their countrymen, recognize as genuine ;
the only one in which they seem to take
any real interest. If in doing so I have
violated the rights of hospitality, or if I
have offended Lady Toppingham, I can
only bear the burden and the blame of
my offense, ask pardon, and bid you
good-morning."

I bowed, and stepped backward ; but
I saw in her eye that she did not mean
to let me go. There was awakened in
her woman's nature the hunter's greed ;
a feeling corresponding to that with
which a man follows up the wild beast
which he has roused, or that with which
an angler lusts after the trout that is
making his reel sing and his pole bend
double. While I was wondering what
would be her next word, her attitude
towards me and the expression of her

112

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

[January,

eye suddenly changed, and she broke
into a gentle but merry and hearty fit
of laughter. She fell into her chair
again, and laughed, still looking at me,
until, as I stood before her, I felt myself
blushing to my very forehead.

After a moment she said, " Pray be
seated, Mr. Humphreys. Please don't
stand there with that penitent air, or
I shall be tempted to laugh at you, in-
stead of laughing with you, as I am
doing now, I assure you. It was a
tremendous farce; as good as a play.
How you must have enjoyed the gen-
eral mystification It was indeed rather
a bold thing to do, if you '11 permit me
to say so ; but where there is no wrong
and no offense, success is an excuse."
Then, as if our interview had thus
far been of the most ordinary nature,
" Would you mind touching the bell for
me ? "

I did so, and a man-servant quickly
entered. " Tell Jackson to bring Lady
Charlotte here ; " and going to a vase
of flowers she busied herself with them
a moment, till a nursery-maid appeared
with a little girl, about a year and a half
older than the boy whom I had found
with her on my entrance. She took the
child upon her lap, and the maid retired
to a window on the other side of the1
room. I wonder if there is an instincft
in a young mother that teaches her tha't
the presence of her child in her arms
not only enhances all her womanly At-
tractions, but adds to her dignity, ai«d
makes every true man her humble ser-
vant.

The child looked at me with infantiW
approval, and the mother said, " This has
been rather a strange interview for a
first morning call ; but," smiling, " I for-
get, — it is a second. I must tell y<pu,
then, that we do not feel toward you
quite as if you were a stranger ; for
not only did dear old Dr. Tooptoe write
most kindly of you in a private letter
to my lord, but your friend, whom ^ve
saw a good deal of before he left oiir

country, spoke of you so often and in
such a way that we felt as if we knew
you, and looked for your coming with
pleasure."

" Did he hint " —

" Not a word."

" Did Lord Toppingham suspect ? "

"No; I 'm inclined to think not. lie
was mystified, of course, and suspected
something ; but not, I believe, that you
were Mr. Washington Adams. You may
think it odd, but I did not tell him what
I myself suspected in a vague sort of
way ; for you '11 remember, I had never
seen you. I rather enjoyed Lord Top-
pingham's bewilderment ; and I felt sure
that you would be here soon, and that
it would all be settled, one way or an-
other. But indeed, Mr. Humphreys, you
tried me rather sorely that morning ;
did-'you not ? Are you in the habit of
such performances, — a professed prac-
tical joker ? "

" Never before, I assure you, did I do
such a thing. That was my first ap-
pearance in such a character ; and it
shall be my last. I feel like saying, with
the school-boy brought up for discipline,
' I did n't do it ; and I '11 never do it
again.' "

" But how came you to present us, as
an American, such a monstrous creature,
such a libel, I am sure, upon your coun-
trymen ? "

" A little too sure, perhaps ; for Mr.
Washington Adams was no monster, no
libel, but, as you saw him, a portrait,
a real man ; a little highly charged, to
be sure, but no more so than Mr. Du
Maurier's figures in his social sketches."

" And the Americans are like Mr.
Washington Adams ? "

" I did not say so. Your phrase is
general, universal. Some are."

" Men who go about whittling ? "

" Verily, my lady, there be Ameri-
cans that whittle."

" And carry bowie-knives and pistols
in that dreadful way ? "

" There are many men in America

1884.]

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

113

who carry bowie-knives and pistols, and
handle them as freely as others, both
here and there, handle canes and riding-
whips. But if you went to America you
would have to look far to find them. In
all my life I have never seen one."

" And who," drawing down the cor-
ners of her mouth, " spit tobacco as
you " —

" Pardon me, madam, I did no such
thing, as you might have known before
if you had asked your servants."

" Well, then, as you pretended to."

" I am sorry to be obliged to confess
that my portrait would have been very
imperfect if that feature of it had been
omitted. You would find that, much
more easily than the whittling and the
pistol-carrying, although not in any pri-
vate house where you would be likely
to be a visitor. But in railway cars, and
in hotels, except in your own rooms and
those of your friends, you would have
difficulty in escaping it. Indeed, one
of the peculiarities of American public
atmosphere in winter is a singular and
unmistakable odor, produced by such
narcotic expectorations upon the heated
surface of a stove. Pray, excuse me ;
although I can hardly forgive myself for
speaking so plainly of something the
very memory of which is nauseous."

" And then Mr. Washington Adams
was, or represented, a real man, — a
real American, after all ; and we are
not so much out of the way as you would
have us believe."

" Let me explain. I was tempted
into the escapade which you have so
kindly passed over by the frequent, the
almost incessant, presentation by British
writers of all sorts — dramatists, novel-
ists, journalists, travelers — of a creature
whom they offer to you, and generally
in so many words, as the American ; and
who is accepted by you — most of you —
as ' the American.' A man who behaves
himself decently, and who is a fair rep-
resentative of the well bred and well ed-
ucated — I will not say the cultivated —

VOL. LIII. — NO. 315. 8

American, you pass by without remark ;
and if you wish to characterize Amer-
ican society, you choose for the purpose
a man who speaks and acts like Mr.
Washington Adams. You look upon us,
in the first place, as one homogeneous
lot or lump of nondescript human crea-
tures ; and of that congregation you
make Mr. Washington Adams the rep-
resentative. I 'm not speaking now of
the few better informed and more kind-
ly intentioned among you, but of the
majority who are full of ignorance and
of prejudice, and of those who serve
their interest and gratify their feelings
by pandering to the combined ignorance
and prejudice of others. Your whole cur-
rent literature, particularly your news-
papers, to this very day are full of
such perversion and misrepresentation.
Any queer, coarse, grotesque slang,
which may have been heard in some
part of America, or picked out of some
American newspaper, and which is nev-
er used by decent, educated men, is re-
peated, with the remark ' as the Amer-
icans say.' All this, and the uneasy
desire, so commonly manifested by your
travelers and by your writers on social
subjects, not to see things simply as they
are in America, but to find something
new and strange, if not ridiculous, in
speech or habits of life, provoked me,
after my talk with Lord Toppingham, to
play my prank, and make a little fun
of you before your own eyes. In play-
ing it, I presented, of course, a highly
charged portrait, not of any American
that you would be likely to meet, but
of such a one as most of your country-
men seem to be desirous of meeting ;
although, as my good friend Captain
Surcingle said to me, not ' as a wegla
thing.' "

"Poor, dear old Jack," said Lady
Toppingham : " he can be an awful
goose ; but there is something in him,
after all. No man could ride to hounds
as he does, and not be a good fellow."

" Indeed, I 'm sure you 're right as

114

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

[January,

well as kind about the captain, — al-
though I 'm not enough of a Nimrod to
see the connection between goodness
and riding to hounds. But as to my
Washington Adams, again ; my sword,
as I have already confessed to you, was
double edged, and cut both ways. There
was not a trait of manners or of speech
in my figure, I am sure, which was not
a truthful representation, slightly high-
lighted and dark - shadowed, of what
might be seen and heard in some part
of America, among certain people. The
sense of monstrosity which you had
was due less to any exaggeration than
to the presentation of all these traits in
one man and in the course of an hour
or so ; as a dramatist will crowd the im-
portant events of years or of a life into
five acts, which can be presented in one
evening. You had your not uncommon
British notion of ' the Americans ' con-
centrated into human pemmican. No
wonder that you found it rather highly
seasoned. And let me ask you, If I
were to offer to the world as a repre-
sentation of the manners and customs
of the English, what I might see at the
Toppingham Arms in the village on
Saturday night, would not Lord Top-
pingham, and Sir Charles Boreham, and
Dr. Tooptoe, and Mr. Grimstone, be
likely to scout it, and perhaps even to
resent it a little ? "

" That would be absurd. I 'm sure
you would n't do that. It would n't be
at all fair."

While this talk was going on, the lit-
tle Lady Charlotte had slid down from
her mother's lap, and had toddled over
to me and begun to play with the seal
and key upon my watch-ribbon. Soon
I took her, too, upon my knee, to her
apparent satisfaction, and with the evi-
dent approbation of the mother. As
she sat there, a voice was heard, which
even I recognized, and my hostess said,
" There 's Lord Toppingham ; " and, af-
ter a moment's hesitation, " Shall I tell
him ? "

" No, please don't. Let me do that
myself."

" As you wish, of course ; but why ?'*

" My offense, if it were one, was per-
sonal to Lord Toppingham ; and with all
thanks to you, madam, and feeling fully
what must be the strength of your ad-
vocacy, I don't quite like to seek shel-
ter behind a woman's — fan." I had
almost used another word, although I
had not begun it, and a little blush and
a sparkle of the eye showed me that the
lady had read my thought.

A few moments passed : then enter
Lord Toppingham in his shooting gear.
As he opened the door he saw the pret-
ty burden of my knee, and exclaimed,
" Why, Chartie, darling, where have you
got ? " before he was well in the room.
He came quickly to me, and giving me
a cordial grasp of the hand said, " I 'm
sure we're glad to see you, at last.
Heard you were here, and only stopped
to wash the powder off my hands. You
've got on famously, I see, with one
very important member of this house-
hold," glancing at his little daughter,
who was now with her mother ; " and
that, I see," looking into his wife's
bright, sweet face, " has done you no
harm in another quarter." And then
he, too, gave me to understand how you
had prepared for me such a frank and
warm reception.

We passed pleasantly enough through
the unavoidable few minutes of com-
monplace talk which open a first inter-
view, during which he mentioned that
his companion had gone home with a
bit of percussion cap in his cheek.
" His first wound," he added ; " his bap-
tism of fire, as that sham Louis Napo-
leon said about his poor little Prince
Imperial."

" For shame, Toppingham ! Is poor
Jack hurt ? "

" Not half so much as he might be
by his own razor, or a woman's hair-pin.
It'll just give him an opportunity for a
becomiu' mouche." Then to me, " He

1384.]

A Sequel to' Mr. Washington Adams.

115

was very much taken by your friend,
Mr. Washington Adams, — was n't he
Kate ? You must have observed it.
Most extraord'nary person, that ! Do
tell us somethin' about him. Never saw
such a queer-actin' person in my life ! "

" Come, come," said Lady Topping-
ham, "don't trouble Mr. Humphreys
about that now. He has explained and
apologized for all Mr. Adams's pecu-
liarities ; and we 've had quite enough
of that sort of American," with an em-
phasis and a glance that gave me a little
consolation.

" You '11 stop to dinner with us, of
course : pray do ; " and my hostess heart-
ily confirmed the invitation.

1 excused myself ; said that I had
brought a horse with me, and glanced
at my costume.

" Never mind that. Your horse will
stop, too ; he '11 be well looked after in
the stables. And as to your morning
coat, never mind that, either. I can
send you everything else that you '11 re-
quire. Do stop. We 're quite alone for
a day or two ; somethin' not very com-
mon at this season of the year. You '11
save Lady Toppin'ham and me from
playin' Darby and Joan."

Just then a servant entered, and said,
" Miss Duffield is here, my lady. She 's
stopping a moment to talk with Mrs.
Timmins," who, I discovered, was the
housekeeper.

" Oh, I 'm glad she 's come," said
Lady Toppingham. " Now I 'm sure
you '11 stay," with the slightest possible
side turn of the head. " Gentlemen al-
ways do stay where Margaret Duffield
is. Although I don't know but you 're
so spoiled with your wonderful Ameri-
can beauties, we hear so much about,
that you may prove unimpressible. Lord
Toppingham 's her guardian. She 's
quite at home here, — comes and goes
just as she pleases ; may not show her-
self for a while yet."

She did, however, show herself at that
moment, entering with a charming union

of modesty and self-possession ; and af-
ter greeting and kissing Lady Topping-
ham, she gave her hand and offered her
cheek to her guardian. As there were
only four of us, I was introduced by the
mere mention of my name. This and
her greetings brought light to her eyes
and an enchanting accession of color
to her cheek. She fully justified Lady
Toppingham. I have rarely seen so
beautiful a girl ; never, one so lovely.
You will imagine a fair, rosy, blue-eyed,
golden-haired young woman, round and
radiant, with all the soft white splendor
of what is called Anglo-Saxon beauty.
But you will be wrong. That beauty is
found in England, but it is far from be-
ing so common as is generally supposed ;
not so common as in New England, I
have sometimes thought. Not notice-
ably tall, Miss Duffield was yet a little
above the average height of women, and
the eye-alluring charms of her perfect
figure were enhanced by what I saw at
a second glance was a gown a little
shorter- waisted than the fashion. That
sharp, hard line, which seems to be de-
fined by some mechanical force, and to
divide harshly the upper from the lower
half of the figure, was absent ; and this
added not a little both to the dignity and
the grace of her bearing. Her broad,
low brow was as white as marble, and
so was her neck. Her eyes would have
been black but for a slight olive tint
that enriched and softened them ; and
her hair, which was not banged or bru-
tified in any way, but parted and drawn
gently above her pink-tipped ears to a
knot, seemed black upon her full white
temples, but where the light shone on it
of a warmer hue. Her nose was saved
from being perfect Grecian by a slight
upward curve from the thin nostril,
a type of that feature somewhat more
common here than it is with us, al-
though, generally speaking, England is
not distinguished as a country of fine
noses. Of the winning beauty of her
mouth I shall not venture to attempt to

116

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

[January,

give you an idea. It was no little rose-
bud, but nobly lined, and full and rich
with promise ; the teeth and their set-
ting seeming to have been furnished by
Hygeia. Briefly, imagine a dark-eyed,
dark-haired Hebe, with an expression
of intelligence and character which are
not Hebe's peculiar attributes, and you
will have an approximate idea of Miss
Duffield. Her dress was perfect : dark
olive-green from throat to ankles, includ-
ing her very gloves, with a light gray
broad-leafed hat and feather. Some
Englishwomen dress so admirably that
it is all the more unaccountable that so
many of them dress ill.

My little friend Chartie made for the
new-comer as soon as she entered the
room, calling her Aunt Peggy, climbing
into her willing lap, and lavishing upon
her the somewhat oppressive although
gentle caresses of a petted, loving child,
and managing, during a few moments
which were occupied with desultory
talk, to push back her hat, and so to
disarrange her hair that, although the
general result seemed to me more ad-
mirable than the most elaborate hair-
dressing I had ever observed, the young
lady withdrew, accompanied by my host-
ess, to repair damages.

" Lady Toppingham told me that Miss
Duffield is your ward."

" Yes ; she is my wife's cousin, the
orphan daughter of her mother's young-
er sister, who was married to a gentle-
man of moderate estate, which, on his
early death without a male heir, went to
a distant relative. She is a dear, good
girl, although somewhat wayward ; as
lovable as she is beautiful. I could not
love her more if she were my younger
sister or my daughter."

" I cannot doubt it."

" When I say wayward, I don't mean
that she 's inclined to be fast and slang-
ish, like so many of our girls, although
she doesn't lack spirit. Far from it. But
she 's quietly set in her own ways : not
very foud of gayety, although she can

be the merriest and most companionable
creature in the world ; likes to be a good
deal by herself, with her music and her
books, and to take long walks ; knows
all the old women and the young moth-
ers in the cottages about here, and they
all worship her."

" Strange that such a girl as she is
has not been married ere this."

" Yes, indeed ; but she does n't ap-
pear at all inclined to marriage. Poor
Madge ! she has only one hundred and
fifty pounds a year ; but she seems per-
fectly content. She might have been
Marchioness of Tipton, and outranked
her cousin. She might have had Sir
John Acrelipp, who has thirty thousand
a year, if she had only held up her fin-
ger ; but she would n't. Jack Surcingle
is awfully cut up about her, and al-
though he is only a second son he has
a thousand a year from his mother and
his uncle, besides his allowance and
his pay ; but she laughs and talks with
Jack, and is as kind as kind can be ;
and yet I can see that on this subject
she keeps him at arm's-length."

" A musician, you say ? "

" Yes, indeed ; which I 'm not, I 'm
glad to own. Can't see the use of it.
She does n't sing much, only a few lit-
tle airs and ballads for me and the chil-
dren ; but she 's what Hans Breitmann
would call a biano-blayer, and quite
awful in the way of Bach and Beetho-
ven, and opuses and things."

" Rather a remarkable girl, it seems
to me."

" Well you may say so ; but, with all
her sweetness, somewhat troublesome to
a guardian. I don't know what we shall
do with her ; such a mixture of attrac-
tiveness and reserve, of poverty and con-
tent. She makes us anxious, sometimes,
for her future."

" Lord Toppingham," I said here, ris-
ing suddenly, " I 've a confession to make
to you, and an apology."

He rose also, and looked inquiringly
into my face. Then I repeated to him

1884.]

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

117

what I had said to Lady Toppiiigham ;
telling him how I had been tempted to
it by our long colloquy in the railway
carriage, and adding that 1 could not
remain under his roof and leave him
ignorant of what 1 had done, nor if he
felt that I had given him just cause of
offense.

He took a turn up and down the
room, and then stopping before me said,
" Frankly, it was carrying a practical
joke rather far, upon a first acquaint-
ance, as I 'm glad to see that you feel
yourself ; and if I had discovered it
without your confession, I own that I
might have been offended. But I see
just how it was : I think I can under-
stand your motive, and I certainly honor
your candor. And — well, let us forget
everything but the fun of it," and with
a pleasant smile he held out his hand.

In a moment or two Lady Topping-
ham returned, saying, as she entered,
" Will Mr. Humphreys stay to dinner ? "

" Thanks ; since you 're so kind as to
ask me, and you seem quite ready to
excuse my morning rig, and to take me
as I am, I will."

" We shall be most happy. I thought
you 'd stop. You 're very good," with
the least perceptible spark of merriment
in her eye, and something in her man-
ner that gave me the notion that she
would have been glad to drop me a lit-
tle mock curtsey ; but she did n't.

Now came five o'clock tea, and with
it Miss Duffield. Needless to tell you
how we chatted through this delightful
gouter : delightful, thus taken with two
or three, or half a dozen, pleasant com-
panions in the lady's parlor or the " liv-
ing " drawing-room of a country house ;
but a bore, — I confess it, an unmitigat-
ed bore, — when it is made the occasion
of a small and early entertainment in
the city, where thirty or forty people,
or more, come and go in costly morning
dresses, the women with their bonnets
on, tinkle teacups and spoons, and gab-
ble the commonplaces of society.

Our talk gradually subsided into a
silence, which we were not ready to
break, while the rays of the sun slanted
through a pretty oriel window, as the
great light-giver sank behind a heavy
mass of clouds. In the course of our
conversation I had spoken about music
to the ladies in a way that revealed, as
I intended it should, my love for the
mysterious art, half sensuous, half emo-
tional, which, as you know, is one of the
chief pleasures of my life. " Come,
Margaret," said Lady Toppingham, sud-
denly breaking the silence, " go to the
piano, and give Mr. Humphreys some
music."

She rose immediately, and saying
only, " With pleasure," went to the in-
strument. Lord Toppingham rose and
left the room, and looking in again in
a moment said to the countess, " Kate,
Mr. Humphreys will excuse you for a
little while ; I want to say a word to
you."

Miss Duffield sat down before the
piano, which I opened for her, and the
deft fingers of her right hand, not small,
but lithe, well rounded, white, and rosy-
tipped, ran lightly up little chromatic
scales here and there upon the key-
board. Invariable this, with all musi-
cians : they feel and coax their instru-
ments, whether piano-fortes, or violins,
or what not, before they set earnestly to
work. As she did this little preliminary
trick, her left hand lying in her lap,
she turned to me and asked, " Are you
of the Humphreys of Dorset ? "

" No ; my people came from this coun-
ty. But that was a long while ago.
Don't you know that I 'm an American,
from Massachusetts, — what you, and
we too, call a Yankee ? I 've some
cousins at home named Duffield."

Her hand fell lightly down beside its
fellow, and for one precious apprecia-
ble instant she bent upon my eyes a
look which I had seen in others of her
countrywomen, when I told the same
to them ; only it was softer, less like a

118

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

[January,

stare ; there was a mingling of sorrow,
almost of pleading, with its gentle won-
der.

Did you ever ask yourself if such
women truly feel, really are, what they
undesigningly express ; whether there is
in fact any necessary connection between
their outer and their inner selves? I
have sometimes doubted it. And if there
is such a relation between soul and body
in them, what becomes of the poor
women who have not eyes and lips like
Miss Duffield's ? I remember coming
suddenly upon a good homely girl who
I thought was in distress, and about to
weep. Alas, poor young woman ! if I
had entered only a few minutes before,
I should have known that she was more
than usually happy, and that that dis-
tortion of her face was her way of smil-
ing. As the thought that suggests this
flashed across my mind, Miss Duffield
sat quickly up, and took half a dozen
double handfuls of roaring chords out of
the instrument, which trembled under
her aggressive touch. After a moment's
silence she played one of Schubert's
airs ; and Schubert himself would have
thanked her as heartily as I did. I asked
for more ; and without a word she played
reminiscences, of her own arranging, I
suspect, of the garden music in Gounod's
Faust. The happy wires sang love un-
der her persuasive fingers. For this I
did not thank her, and we sat a few mo-
ments without speaking. Then reach-
ing from the music-rack a book which
had caught my eye, I opened it, and put
it before her, saying, " What you have
done is charming, indeed ; but I know
that you must like something better.
Please, will you not play me one of
these ? "

" That ! That's Bach," she said, with
surprise in her face. " Do you like
Bach ? "

"Why not?"

" Why, you 're an American, you say,
and I should n't think of playing Bach
to an American. I know you have

Italian opera over there, with Patti and
Nilsson and all the rest. But Bach !
It 's only of late years even here that
people generally begun to like Bach ;
except the real musicians, you know."

" But I learned to like Bach in Amer-
ica when I was a little boy, before Pat-
ti and Nilsson were heard of. Just as
few people in America as in England
really like and understand Bach ; but
in my boyhood I was one of a sort of
club that met every week to enjoy Bach
and Beethoven, and there are many
other such in America. I know of one
which began in the last generation,
and has met weekly for thirty -five
years."

She said no more, but played one of
those sonatas in which the great master
of the antique school makes a fugue sing
the passion of a broken heart amid all
the intricacies of counterpoint. And
then she played another, and yet an-
other, and another, until the twilight be-
gan to fall upon us ; and rising hastily,
she said, " Excuse me ; I must dress for
dinner," and left me in the darkling
room.

As this parlor was not used at night,
it was not lighted, and I sat undisturbed,
musing happily under the influence of
the music, for nearly half an hour, be-
fore a servant entered with a candle, and
a message: "My lady sent me to show
you your room, sir, if you 'd like to go to
it now." But going out I met Lord Top-
pingham himself, who said, " I 've been
lookin' for you in the drawin'-room.
What made you sit here in the dark ? "
Then he kindly accompanied me to my
room, with an air of welcome, and hop-
ing that I would ask for anything I
wanted (but all was amply provided) he
left me to the valeting of my solicitous
attendant, and I soon went down to him
and the ladies.

Of course, in such a little party of
four, I took my hostess in to dinner,
which she had wisely ordered to be served
at a round table standing at the edge of

1884.]

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

119

a huge bay-window of the dining-room.
Our dinner was chatty and pleasant ;
but although Miss Duffield was directly
opposite to me, she said hardly a word
to me during dinner, directing most of
her conversation to her guardian. Be-
fore we returned to the drawing-room
the afternoon clouds had gathered over-
head, and were pouring rain. " Of course
you '11 not go wandering off about the
country in such a night as this," my
hostess said. " You '11 stop till to-mor-
row. What a blessing that some one was
sent to keep us from boring each other
to death ! Really, Mr. Humphreys, you
're quite a merciful dispensation."

I stayed over till next morning at the
Priory, and far into the next day, and
departed only from necessity, and with
a hearty and accepted invitation to re-
turn directly for a visit of some days,
on which I was promised a meeting with
some pleasant people. There were
some eight or a dozen guests all the
time, who shot and dined, and dined and
shot ; and they were pleasant enough ;
but what they were is not to my pres-
ent purpose. I enjoyed it all, but most
the society of my hostess and her cousin.
They charmed me more than any other
women I had ever met. Well-bred,
simple, unaffected, sensible, well - edu-
cated women I had seen before ; but
never women who to all these qualities
added a sweet feminine meekness of
manner, combined with a capacity to
show spirit, and even to be bold, upon
occasion. This muliebrity seems to me
the crowuing charm of the sex in Eng-
land. With it these ladies, into whose
close companionship I was gradually
drawn, fed fat the hunger of my soul.
Our common love for music, and the
likeness of our love, brought me very
near to Miss Duffield ; this nearness be-
ing much favored by her evident lack
of sympathy witli most of the men
around her, and by her independence.
We were thus often alone, and never
more alone than at times when there

were others near us. You know my
love for walking in the country, which
at home I have generally to enjoy in
solitude. She rivaled me, and allowed
me to accompany her on some of her
strolls, and even on some of her chari-
table missions. On one of these I dis-
covered the reason of the reserve that
awakened her guardian's anxiety. Our
talk had gradually led up to it, and she
exclaimed, —

" Oh, I 'm weary of seeing men
around me doing nothing, thinking
nothing, and leading such petty, selfish
lives ! Of course I know there are able
men enough and busy men enough in
England ; but I 've been to London
only once since I was a child, and I see
nothing of that sort of man, but men
that shoot, and hunt, and play billiards,
and gamble, or vanish away to the Con-
tinent on some shameful business, like

those ; " and she mentioned two

or three noble families, whose names
were well known in the divorce court.
" Either these, or else a dull squire. My
dear guardian is worth a regiment of
such men. There 's Surcingle : he does
n't gamble, and he 's good. But what
do you think he said," she added, laugh-
ing, " one day when I told him he did
nothing but play billiards ? That he
did : that he hunted, and shot, and ate,
and smoked, and played cricket, and
made — talked to me ; and although
he is n't the wisest, he 's about the best
of them. And yet I detest prigs and
pedants. I know I 'm only a woman,
but I can't help thinking ; and it seems
to me that the way in which our society
is organized tends to make such men ;
for most men are selfish and indolent,
except about their own pleasures."

I stayed ten days at the Priory,
which were the happiest of my life ;
and at last took myself off, for very
shame. But erelong I returned to my

little inn at B , and again visited

the Priory frequently, although without
sleeping there.

120

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

[January,

One morning I went over early, and
was walking through the park by a lit-
tle dell, or shaw, about three quarters
of a mile from the house, when my at-
tention was attracted by what was plain-
ly a splash of blood upon the path ;
then drops large and frequent stretched
on before me, and they were fresh. I
followed them quickly, arid after a rod
or two I came upon a sight that made
my heart stand still. Miss Duffield lay
across the path, with a little pool of
blood by her side. She was pale, but
conscious. A gleam of joy came from
her eyes, as I sprang forward to help
her.

Briefly, this had happened : On one
of her walks, she had seen, on a dwarf
tree at the edge of the shaw, a little
cluster of leaves, beautifully discolored
by some caprice of nature ; but the twig
on which it grew was so tough, and
stretched so far over the edge, that al-
though she could touch she could not
break it. Therefore this morning she
had brought with her one of those little
clasp pruning-knives which are used by
amateur gardeners of her sex ; and lean-
ing forward she was able to cut off the
twig, which she at once thrust into the
buttoned opening of the waist of her
walking-dress, and was about shutting
the knife, when the turf yielded on the
edge where she was standing, and she fell
forward into the shaw. The fall would
have been of little importance, although
she was somewhat bruised and strained ;
but the knife was driven into her left
wrist. As she drew it out, it was fol-
lowed by a spurt of blood. In terror
and pain she managed to scramble up to
the path, and started to run home ; but
the wound bled freely, and after run-
ning a few yards she fell fainting to the
ground. As the loss of blood had not
yet been very great, the horizontal posi-
tion, acting upon one of her high health
and strength, brought her to her senses
just before I appeared.

I saw at once, from the bright color

of the blood and its regular gush, that
she had cut an artery clean in two.
Grasping her arm firmly, I said, " You
must let me help you, or — Will you
trust yourself to me ? "

« Oh, yes, yes ! "

And now my experience as an ama-
teur assistant in our soldiers' hospitals,
in my youth, stood me in good stead.
Cutting her sleeve open to the shoulder
with my pocket-knife, I soon made an
extempore tourniquet with my handker-
chief and a small pebble, using as a lever
a stout twig that I found hard by ; and
it was hardly more than a minute from
the time when I found her before I had
the brachial artery compressed and the
flow of blood stopped. But what to do !
I could not leave her ; and although I
could carry her a little way, but with
danger of opening the artery again, of
what good was that ? Not a living crea-
ture was within sight, and we were
three quarters of a mile from the house.
Before this I had thought of the isola-
tion of these great English houses ; but
now it came upon me with horror, and
with cursings in my heart. She did not
speak one word, but looked at me in
silence.

I saw a little knoll near by, which
would give me a farther view. I raised
her as gently as I could, and laid her
by the side of the path, with my coat
under her head. I ran up the knoll,
and looked about : iu vain. I called
out with all my strength. My voice
sounded to me faint and hollow and
ghostly. I came down again to watch
my patient. She lay quiet, and, opening
her eyes, looked at me with calm con-
fidence. Then stretching out her un-
wouuded arm, she pressed my hand, but
did not speak. Again I went upon the
knoll, and, peering about, what joy to
see in the distance a young rustic fellow
crossing an open in the park ! I shouted
and threw up my hands, and managed
to attract his attention, and to turn his
steps toward me. But with what leaden

1884.]

A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

121

feet he came ! Yet I did soon bring
him to quickening his pace, and when
he had come near I rushed upon him,
saying, " My lad, don't be frightened.
Here 's a lady hurt. You understand
me?"

« Ees."

" It 's Miss Duffield, Lady Topping-
ham's cousin. You know her ? "

"Ees, oi knaw un. She do be t'
koindest leddy yereabaout."

" Well, she '11 die if she is not helped.
Get a wagon, a cart, anything on wheels,
just as quick as lightning. You under-
stand ? "

" Ees : I be to get cairt to cairt un
up to aouse."

I was about to offer him money ; but
although slow of speech, he was ready
in action, and was off on a run.

My patient I found doing as well as
I could hope for. We neither of us
spoke. There was no water near; I
had nothing to give her. She stretched
out her right band to me again : I held
it, and watched my tourniquet in silence.
Such a silence I had never known be-
fore. I heard the beating of my heart,
of hers. I heard the light breeze sigh-
ing a sad monotone ; the little creakings
of the tiny insects around us. It seemed
to me that I heard the grass grow. I
saw all trifling things : the dry twigs,
the odd shape of some of the leaves upon
the shrubs, the very grains of sand in
the path. I saw the beauty of her arm,
and remember tracing the course of a
blue vein down its inner side. I saw
that the little cluster of leaves which
was the cause of all this woe still re-
mained in her corsage.

All at once the sound of quick hoofs
and of wheels, — not farm-cart wheels,
but light wheels, moving rapidly, thank
God ! — and in a few moments they
stopped where the path went out of
the copse upon the road, and help ap-
peared with the manly form and troubled
face of Captain Surcingle. He had been
driving through the park in a light dog-

cart, on some jockeyish business, when
he was seen and stopped by my mes-
senger.

Goose as his cousin called him, the
captain could not have behaved better.
He was silent, sympathetic, attentive,
helpful, doing without a word just what
I bade him. Keeping Miss Duffield's
wounded arm across her body, we car-
ried her carefully to the dog-cart, and
lifted her into it. I told her that I should
have to place her upon, the bottom of
the cart, and rest her head upon my
knee. She laid it there without a word.
I wrote a few lines on the blank leaf
of an old letter, stating the case, and
gave it to my rustic messenger, telling
him to get it to the village surgeon as
soon as possible. The captain mounted
his seat and gathered up the reins,
when, turning his head, he saw the posi-
tion of my patient.

" Oh, I say, Mr. Humfweys, p'waps
you would n't mind dwivin'. I should
n't inind havin' you. You see, you un-
d'stand hawses in 'Mewica, mebbe, but
you don't und'stand sittiu' in dog-cahts,
you know."

" If you wish, and if Miss Duffield
wishes " —

The weary eyes opened on me with
a piteous look; and she said faintly,
" Thanks, dear Jack ; but please don't
have me moved again." I don't know
whether dear Jack could have heard
her, but I cried out, —

" Never mind, captain ; no time for
that. Drive on, please ! Gently, now."

The good fellow distinguished him-
self as a whip, and took us swiftly to
the house, and as softly as if we were
driving over velvet. Indeed, his knowl-
edge of the park enabled him to cut off
turns and corners, and to take almost a
straight line over the grass

o o

Needless to tell you the commotion
at the Priory. Miss Duffield was soon
in bed ; and erelong the surgeon ar-
rived on horseback. The artery must
be taken up, of course. He needed help,

122

A Sequel to Mr'. Washington Adams.

[January,

and asked for the gentleman who ap-
plied that tourniquet. The consequence
was that I assisted at the little opera-
tion, while Lady Toppinghain held the
patient's other hand, and Mrs. Timmins
stood by to give any help that might be
necessary. She underwent the opera-
tion in perfect silence. I did not look
at her while it was performed, and after
the bandage was applied I immediately
left the room. As I passed around the
foot of the bed she opened her eyes
and smiled ; I bowed silently, and have
not seen her since. But from that time
I have been at the Priory, Dr. Catlin
having expressed a wish that I should
remain for two or three days.

This happened last Monday morning ;
and every day the report has been that
she was doing as well as possible. In-
deed, as it turned out, the accident which
might have been mortal was really of
no grave consequence. Therefore, this
morning, all the household went to
church, leaving her in the care of nurse

NOTE. It is difficult for me to discover the re-
lation of the latter part of Mr. Mansfield Hum-
phreys' letter to Mr. Washington Adams's visit to
Toppington Priory, or to the subject of my friend's
colloquy with Lord Toppingham in the railway
car. Doubtless the incidents which he relates
were of profound interest to the parties directly
concerned in them ; and they have an obvious ten-
dency to complications of which we may possibh'
learn something hereafter. The publication in
England, to which he refers, of the account given
in The Atlantic of the colloquy and the visit, as a
little book, was entirely at the suggestion and re-
quest of the publisher, with whom I had had no
previous communication, and who proposed it be-
cause he thought that it would be the means of
diffusing some useful and much-needed informa-
tion. It has been the subject of some animadver-
sions by a writer in a well-fcnown London publica-
tion, which are of such a nature that a very brief
examination of a few of them may be profitable.
The little book seems to have disturbed the diges-
tion, and certainty to have deranged the intellect,
of the critic. He has even been wholly unable to
apprehend its purpose. "It is meant," lie says,
" to give, so far as it goes, an essentially accurate
picture of what English society actually is." This
is amazing. Such a picture its writer had, in-
deed, endeavored to paint in a previous book,
England Without and Within, which has been
found by some British critics almost too flatter-
ing. The purpose of Mr. Washington Adams, on
the contrary, was solely to give to tha many Brit-

and housekeeper, while I shut myself in
my room to write to you.

After a while I was interrupted by a
gentle knock at my door. It was the
maid who, at the Priory, specially waits
on her ; for she has no maid of her
own.

" Please, sir," she said, " Miss Duf-
field's compliments, and she 's very much
better this morning. Nothing now only
a little weakness. She thought she
would put her arm in a sling, and come
down ; but the doctor would n't pummit.
An' please, sir, would you find her a nice
book. An' she sends you this," hold-
ing out to me what I recognized as the
cluster of leaves which I had seen in
her corsage that morning. On one of
the leaves was a little drop of blood,
which I have not washed off.

This is all I have to tell you now.
Should there be anything more here-
after which would interest you, I shall
write. Faithfully yours,

W. MANSFIELD HUMPHREYS.

ish readers of The Atlantic some information (as
simply and baldly true as that two and two are
four) about "America and the Americans," which,
as its intelligent and enterprising Edinburgh pub-
lisher saw, was really much needed by a very
considerable part of the British public. That the
ignorance thus assumed does really exist, even
among many of the most cultivated, best bred,
and most estimable members of that society, no
one acquainted with it can doubt.

On one or two special points the critic referred
to takes exceptions, as to which it may be well
that he should be put to his purgation. One of
these is that a man of Lord Toppingham's rank
and breeding is represented as dropping his final
^'s in ing and the r in words like pardon. The
language of the personages in Mr. Washington
Adams was put into their mouths merely from my
own observation ; but on looking into the matter
there is the best British authority for it. Punch
is not without examples of such talk by such peo-
ple; and it could not otherwise be faithful. For
example, Punch, September 6, 1873, under the
heading Evil Communications, etc. Scene, a pas-
try cook's ; a governess, with her young mascu-
line charge.

" Lord Reginald. Ain't yer goin' to have some
puddin', Miss Richards ? It 's so jolly.

" Governess. There again, Reginald ! Pudding
— goin', — Ain't yer ! That 's the way Jim Bates
and Dolly Maple speak ; and Jim 's a stable-boy,
and Dolly 's a dairy-maid.

" Lord Reginald. Ah! but that's the way fa-

1884.] A Sequel to Mr. Washington Adams.

123

ther and mother speak, too ! And father 's a duke,
and mother 's a duchess ! So, there ! "

And again, the same volume, under the heading,
Fragment of Fashionable Conversation: Scene, a
first-class railway carriage, —

"Little Swelled. 1. Huntin', to-day," etc.

Indeed, the point is indisputable. There is no
more authoritative observer upon this subject than
Mr. Alexander Ellis, F. R. S., etc., the eminent
author of the great work on English Pronuncia-
tion ; and he represents (Part IV., p. 1211), no less
a person than Professor Jowett, Master of Balliol
College, Oxford, as saying in one of his lectures,
"attachin1 'imself to 'im," instead of "attaching
himself to him." All this, however, is probably,
as I have already conjecturally indicated in Eng-
land Without and Within, but a relic of the good
usage of a not remote past.

As to the dropped r, the same high authority
(Mr. Ellis) records the following examples (idem,
pp. 1212, 1213). Dr. Hooper, president of the
British Association, said "eitha, neitha, unda-
taken " (for either, neither, undertaken); a peer,
" obse'ving, brighta, conve'sant, direc'ta, pa'cels "
(for observing, brighter, conversant, parcels); cer-
tain professional and commercial" men, " futsha
boa'd, rema'ks " (for future, board, remarks). [I
look only to the consonants, and ask Mr. Ellis's
pahdon, if I have thus misrepresented his vowel
sounds.] This point may be dismissed without
further consideration. But I admit with pleasure
that I never heard a well-born, well-bred person in
England say " yer " for you ; possibly, Mr. Punch
might suggest, because the range of my social ob-
servation stopped one grade below the ducal rank.

Lady Boreham and the society at Boreham Hall
seem chiefly to afflict this critic. He appears to re-
sent as a personal insult this little passing glimpse
of one limited variety of life in England; and al-
though it is a mere link, a coupling between the
first and the second parts of the little sketch, only
an incidental bit of machinery to make the rest
work together, he devotes most of his attention to
it, and will have it that the Boreham people are set
forth as " the English," just as the Washington
Adams's have been held up for half a century in
England as " the Americans." He is woeful be-
cause Lady Boreham is represented " almost ex-
actly as the French caricature Englishwomen."
The coincidence is remarkable, and somewhat sig-
nificant ; for I have never been in France : nor have
I ever seen any French caricatures of English peo-
ple, except those in Gavarni's London, in which
I remember no such figure as Lady Boreham.
She is as exact a picture as I could make, in the
little time and space that I could gire to her, of a.
sort of woman who is not very uncommon in Eng-
land, but to whom this little sketch portrait is my
first and only reference. I grieve that my re-
viewer takes her so sorely to heart; and if he real-
ly believes that she was presented as the typical

Englishwoman, I sympathize with him cordially.
For I do not say here for the first time how charm-
ing I found the sex in England, whatever their
rank or condition. But is it not permitted to hint
that there is one woman in England who is not
absolute in feminine charm ? And hare our Brit-
ish friends become so sensitive, are their mental
integuments so excoriated, that they cannot have
it said that there is one household in England
which is characterized by dull respectability?
Truly it makes a difference when, the name being
changed, of thee the fable is narrated. My critic
seems, as he read, to have taken off his skin and
sat in his nerves.

One grievance heavily alleged is that this lady
"drops all her A's;" this being done in a way
that conveys a notion that her speech is the repre-
sentative speech of the book, — an old and not
very admirable device of injurious criticism.
Moreover, the assertion is absolutely untrue. If
I had so represented Lady Boreham's speech, I
should have been guilty of deliberate slander.
The truth is that she, the least important person-
age of all that appear, speaks just six times ! In
only one instance does she utter more than a dozen
words ! She uses words beginning with h only
eleven times in all; and all of these, every one, she
aspirates, just as the other personages do, except
two, home and hotel ! Now if any general asser-
tion ma}' be safely made as to English-speaking
in England, it is that only a very few among the
highest bred and most thoroughly educated per-
sons say home and hotel. A man who is so pre-
cise in his aspirations as to say humorous (which
thirty years ago no one said) will yet say 'otel al-
ways, and 'ome whenever the word is preceded by
a consonant. Even the women, whose speech, in
almost all conditions of life, it is worth a voyage
to hear, say Jome and 'otel.

My critic, howerer, makes one admission which
atones for all his misrepresentation, intentional or
unintentional. He says that my friend Hum-
phreys, in his masquerade, " deliberately makes a
beast of himself." I don't agree with him any
more than Lady Toppingham does, or my corre-
spondents do. Humphreys merely showed the
company at the Priory a concentrated representa-
tion of certain rude, grotesque forms of life. But
the personage which he " disfigured or presented "
is not new to the British public, but a very old
acquaintance, indeed. He is merely the man who
has figured on their stage, in their fiction, in their
serial literature, in their illustrated books, for
more than half a century as "the American;"
and my reviewer thus admits that during that
time British authors and journalists and artists
(see Punch passim) have been presenting "the
Americans" to their world as — beasts. The
word is his, not mine. With Phedre I can say
(Test toi qui fas nomme. He has fully justified
Mansfield Humphrey*.

.Richard Grant White.

124

The Political Field.

[January,

THE POLITICAL FIELD.

THE state elections of last fall dis-
closed results which surprised the politi-
cians of both parties, and developed new
conditions and probabilities for the ap-
proaching presidential contest of 1884.
These results showed that the two great
national political organizations are still
of nearly equal force in the important
States of the North that have hereto-
fore been the ground of sharpest con-
flict in national campaigns, and that in
spite of all the ferment of new issues
of the past three years no new organ-
ization has arisen of sufficient strength
to be culled a party, or even a respect-
able faction. The voting population is
still divided into two great camps, —
Republican and Democratic. What lies
outside of those camps, in the way of
temperance associations and labor -re-
form leagues, produces some effect in
state canvasses when allied with one or
the other of the great parties, but stand-
ing alone cannot much affect results,
and i^not likely to play any appreciable
part in the coming presidential cam-
paign. The vital, potent political forces
still gather under the old ensigns, al-
though it would be hard for any one to
say just what those ensigns now signify.

Further, the late elections showed
that the great wave of Democratic suc-
cess of 1882 brought about no perma-
nent change in the convictions of the
voters. The Republican defeats of that
year were so overwhelming that short-
sighted prophets predicted the speedy
death of the party. There seemed to
be a hopeless disintegration of the Re-
publican forces. Party discipline could
not be enforced, and appeals to party
feeling were ineffectual to bring the
voters into line. New York, a Repub-
lican State in 1880, elected a Demo-
cratic governor by 192,000 majority.
Pennsylvania, which had been steadily

Republican for twenty years, except in
1874, gave the Democratic candidate
for governor 48,000 majority over his
Republican competitor. Massachusetts,
which had only once refused the Repub-
licans a majority since their party was
formed in 1854, put in the state house
a man peculiarly objectionable to them,
because he had deserted them as soon
as their victories began to cost some ef-
fort.

Nothing seemed plainer, after the
elections of 1882, than that the Dem-
ocrats had the prize of the presidency
already in their grasp. They had won
their victories, not by presenting any
new issues, but simply by appealing to
the dissatisfaction of the voters with the
course of the Republican leaders. Gen-
eral Garfield used to say that every
man in public life has a precipice ahead
of him, — how near he cannot know, —
towards which he is steadily marching.
It may be far off or close at hand, but
sooner or later he will fall over it. As
with the politician, so with a party. It
cannot always hold the favor of the
majority and keep itself in power. The
longer the career of success behind it,
the greater the probability that its pre-
cipice of defeat is close ahead. The
elections of 1882 appeared to be the
first descents of the precipice, the sheer
fall of which was to come in 1884.

Nor did the October elections of
1883 indicate any change in the current
of Republican disaster. Iowa, always
Republican, was carried with difficulty,
growing out of the prominence of the
prohibition question; but Ohio, which
had regularly been carried by that party
the year before a presidential election,
went Democratic, in spite of the polit-
ical vagaries and want of personal pop-
ularity of the Democratic candidate for
governor. It is true that in Ohio the

1884.]

liquor question complicated the contest
to the prejudice of the Republicans. In
reason it should not have done so, be-
cause the Republican legislature gave the
people a fair chance to choose between
two constitutional amendments, — one
for prohibition and the other for license ;
and the Scott law, which imposed heavy
taxes on drinking-saloons, proved pop-
ular, and ought logically to have drawn
to the Republicans the ultra - temper-
ance vote, if that vote were ever logical
or practical. Probably the Republicans
would have carried Ohio if the question
of how to deal with whiskey-selling had
been shut out of the canvass ; but the
Democrats refused to admit this, and
they gained in other States all the en-
couragement and momentum of a great
victory in the State that had long been
the key of the Republican position.

Thus everything appeared to be in
their favor in the November elections.
Yet without any marked activity or en-
thusiasm on the part of their opponents,
and in fact with hardly a respectable
show of campaign organization to con-
tend with except in Massachusetts, they
were beaten in the three pivotal States
of New York, Pennsylvania, and Massa-
chusetts, which they had carried so easily
the year before. In Pennsylvania, the
40,000 majority for Pattison in 1882
was changed to a majority of 16,000
for the head of the Republican ticket.
In New York, Governor Cleveland's
prodigious majority of 192,000 was all
swept away, and the Republican candi-
date for secretary of state, General Carr,
was elected by about 17,000 majority.
The Democrats pulled through the rest
of their state ticket, it is true, and were
able to attribute the defeat of their lead-
ing candidate to his views on the tem-
perance question ; but the result, com-
pared with that of the previous year,
was none the less for them a mortifying
disaster. In Massachusetts, the previous
year, General Butler, after long effort
and by the exercise of political adroit-

The Political Field.

125

ness and audacity that reached the
height of genius, had managed to weld
together into a majority party all the
odds and ends of new movements and
old factions — labor reformers, commu-
nists, greenbackers, woman suffragists
and idealists, and agitators of various
creeds — in connection with the old
Democratic party of the State. His year
in the gubernatorial chair can hard-
ly be said to have disappointed any of
his miscellaneous suppoiters. Like Syd-
ney Smith's flea, he displayed a diabol-
ical activity. He was always reforming
something or other, and by constantly
keeping himself in the public eye he
was able to assume at all times a dra-
matic attitude of leadership, well calcu-
lated to work upon the imagination of his
followers. Yet when the ballots were
counted, his majority of 14,000 was
found to have disappeared, and Mr. Rob-
inson, his antagonist, came off victorious
by 10,000 votes.

Only in one contested State did the
Democrats win a victory, and there their
success was of great importance and ad-
vantage in the presidential struggle, —
not to them, but to the Republicans.
That State was Virginia. Paradoxical
though the statement may seem at first
thought, the Democratic triumph in that
quarter strengthens the whole Repub-
lican line for the approaching national
campaign. Senator Mahone, who led
the opposition to the regular Democracy
in Virginia, is to that State what Gener-
al Butler is to Massachusetts. He rep-
resents the elements of ignorance, discon-
tent, irresponsibility to social restraints,
and disorganization of established con-
ditions. To the negro voters he had
joined the lower classes of the white
voters into a motley organization, called
the Readjuster party. His assertion that
the state debt could not and should not
be paid in full attracted to him the
thriftless small farmers ; the careless
mountaineers, who live on one small
corn-patch, a few hogs, and a rifle ;

126

The Political Field.

[January,

and the idle politicians of the county
towns. The Republican leaders turned
over the colored vote to him because he
promised them success and offices. He
had a small contingent of admirers in
Washington, — men who hang on the
skirts of the administration, and whose
knowledge of Southern politics is gath-
ered in the hotel lobbies of that city.
These men appeared at one time to have
persuaded the President that Mahone
must be supported as an " entering
wedge " to split the solid South, and
that if he were successful this year it
would be feasible next year for the Re-
publicans to carry three or four South-
ern States. The " Mahone alliance," as
the political scheme concocted in Wash-
ington was called, was utterly distaste-
ful to the Republican masses of the
North, — a foundation stone in whose
political faith was the honest payment
of public debts in exact accordance with
contracts. The ablest of the Republi-
can leaders repudiated it openly ; all
regarded it as indefensible before North-
ern constituencies. Now that the Vir-
ginia alliance is broken up by the fail-
ure of Mahone to carry the election,
the Republican party is well rid of a
load which threatened to break it down
in the coming campaign. Tt will hence-
forth have no bargains and trades with
state-debt readjusters or repudiators to
explain.

When we come to look for the causes
which have brought about a reaction in
favor of the Republicans, the good con-
duct of the national administration must
be given the first place. After the ri-
diculous defeat of President Arthur's
candidate for governor of New York in
1882, the administration let state politics
sedulously alone, excepting some little
countenance given to Mahone. It may
almost be said to have let national poli-
tics alone, too. President Arthur has
made a King Log kind of administra-
tion, because he had the sagacity to see,
after the failure of his attempts at activ-

ity, that the policy of drifting was the
only one likely to heal Republican dis-
sensions and rehabilitate the party. Any
effort on his part to become a positive
force in politics would have revived old
antagonisms and produced new ones.
The people never fully trust a Vice-
President who succeeds to the executive
chair. They say, " We did not put that
man there ; " and if he seeks to urge any
particular line of action upon his party
or upon Congress, they are apt to say,
" The good man whom we elected, and
whom death removed from office, would
not have behaved in that way." In
short, they are offended if he exercises
the full measure of the powers and priv-
ileges of his position, and are best satis-
fied if he merely administers the office
in a business-like way, leaving questions
of policy for his party to determine, with-
out his interference. In this spirit Mr.
Arthur has of late discharged his du-
ties; doing a good deal of traveling and
fishing, attending to the routine business
of the Executive with intelligence and
fairness, and letting politics take care
of themselves. The effect upon the Re-
publican party has been salutary. The
old factions find no fresh cause of quar-
rel with him or with each other, and
his quiet, decorous, undemonstrative ad-
ministration has afforded the Democrats
no point of attack. Mr. Arthur is en-
titled to the credit of being the first Vice-
President succeeding to the presidency
in our history who has strengthened his
party. All the others, Tyler, Fillmore,
and Johnson, were disorganizes.

The Republicans also gathered some
strength from local causes. In Penn-
sylvania, the " reform " administration
of Governor Pattison, which took office
with much eclat, failed to meet expecta-
tions, and irritated the voters by bring-
ing about a tedious, expensive, and un-
necessary extra session of the legisla-
ture ; in New York, the phenomenal
majority governor, Cleveland, proved a
commonplace though fairly competent

1884.]

The Political Field.

127

executive, and demonstrated no real fit-
ness for party leadership ; in Massachu-
setts, Governor Butler's investigating
zeal, his efforts to " stir things up," and
his scheme of basing political power on
the discontent and communistic tenden-
cies of the laboring classes in factory
towns gave the Republicans an opportu-
nity to rally the stable, property-own-
ing classes against him. It is a notice-
able fact, however, that national issues
played no appreciable part in these state
canvasses, and that in New York, where
the result was most significant, there
was no particular state issue. Indeed,
there can hardly be said to have been
any campaign in that State, in the usual
significance of the word. The two par-
ties nominated their tickets and appoint-
ed their committees, but there were few
public meetings held, and the columns
of the newspapers gave little evidence
that an election was approaching. The
great Republican gain in New York
must be attributed chiefly to the re-
newed vitality of the party as a national
organization.

Besides the revival of the Republic-
an party in the Northern States, the re-
cent elections show that that party is
gaining no new footholds in the South,
— a fact to be regretted by all patriotic
men. Every State which joined the re-
bellion is going to cast its electoral vote,
next fall, for the Democratic candidate
for President, whoever he may be. In
no one of them will there be a contest
su«h as will be carried on in every
Northern State. All will be strongly,
hopelessly Democratic, as a matter of
sentiment and sympathy coming down
from the war period and the epoch of
reconstruction ; not because the Dem-
ocratic party now proposes to do any-
thing the Southern people want done,
or because the Republican party advo-
cates any measures they favor, but pure-
ly from feeling and tradition. It is
high time for the influential classes of
the South to develop healthful political

antagonisms among themselves, but they
are evidently not going to do so in sea-
son to affect the coming presidential
contest. The solid South will still exist,
to throw its great electoral vote in a
lump into the scales. The Democratic
p'arty will again be able to count upon
that vote as assured in advance and
without effort, and thus to concentrate
the campaign activities upon the task
of adding to it forty-five electoral votes
from the entire North. That this con-
dition of things is lamentable, no thought-
ful man who looks beyond mere party
success will fail to perceive ; but it ex-
ists, and there is no present help for it.
The Northern States are the only bat-
tlefields of the next contest; the States
south of the Potomac and the Ohio are
not debatable ground.

At the same time, there is good rea-
son to believe that this continued solid-
ity of the South will not be a dominant
topic of discussion in the canvass, and
will not enter as an important factor in
the result in the presidential election in
the Northern States ; I mean that the
voters will not be urged to make the
Northern States solidly Republican be-
cause the Southern States persist in be-
ing solidly Democratic. We have had
enough of that sectional cry in the past.
If the Republican party is to be contin-
ued in power, it should be because it
has practical and immediate purposes
for the good of the country, promising
wise legislation and prudent adminis-
tration and honest dealing with new is-
sues, and not because the South obsti-
nately clings to an obsolete sentiment of
sectionalism. Intelligent people in the
North know that the Southern people
are no longer seeking to change any-
thing in the constitution or the statutes
established as the result of the war ;
that they cherish no plans for the divis-
ion of the country, or the denial of
rights to the blacks ; that they differ
among themselves on living national is-
sues ; and, in a word, that they are now

128

The Political Field.

patriotic, prosperous citizens of the re-
public, with abundance of sectional feel-
ing and prejudice still, but with abso-
lutely no sectional aims. The Repub-
lican party will do well to let them
alone to wear out their stupid provincial
sentiment of fidelity to a single party,
and make its fight with little regard to
the fact that they have prejudged the
general question between the parties,
and determined to throw their States
solidly on one side.

We therefore see that, without taking
account of the changes in public senti-
ment which may be effected by the do-
ings of Congress at its present session,
the prospects for the near presidential
contest are that the two old parties will
face each other in the Northern States
with about the same show of relative
strength, distributed in about the same
way, as in 1880. A close and exciting
campaign will probably ensue. Yet it
is difficult to foresee what the parties
are going to fight about. No important
public question, now alive and open, di-
vides them. Towards no such question
does one party take a decided and unani-
mous affirmative position, and the other
an equally decided and unanimous neg-
ative. Let us name some public ques-
tions, and apply the test : civil service
reform, the internal revenue system, the
tariff, national banking, silver currency,
postal telegraphy, the disposition of the
surplus in the treasury, internal improve-
ments, the restoration of our ocean com-
merce, the construction of a navy, a posi-
tive foreign policy, — is there any one of
these topics of current national interest
concerning which the two parties take
issue ? It may be said that a majority
of the Republican party favor the civil
service system, recently introduced, and
that a majority of the Democrats do not ;
that a majority of the Democratic party
oppose the protective tariff system, and
a majority of the Republicans sustain it ;
and so on through most of the list : but
in each question there is a minority of

[January,

one party siding with a majority of the
other. In this muddled condition of
opinion, neither party seems willing to
select a few questions, formulate them
plainly, assume a positive attitude to-
wards them, and ask the verdict of the
voters upon them. Unless the situation
is changed this winter, we are likely to
have nothing better than a bundle of
patriotic platitudes and political truisms
presented in the party platforms, which
nobody will care a straw about.

In such an event the struggle will
largely turn upon the popularity of the
candidates. In old times, when the
country newspapers placed mottoes un-
der their headings, one much in use
was, " Measures, not men." We are
likely to have a campaign of men, not
measures. If each of the great par-
ties fails to present any measures as dis-
tinctively its own, then the independent
and unattached voters, who hold the bal-
ance of power, will take their choice be-
tween the presidential candidates, on the
ground of their relative personal fit-
ness for the place. Such a choice would
be entirely legitimate. If there are no
national questions at issue, then sensible
men may well make up their minds
which of the two candidates for the
chief magistracy shows the better rec-
ord and the better promise for statesman-
like performance in the White House.
A contest over the respective merits of
two strong candidates would not be
altogether regrettable, provided it did
not degenerate into slander and abuse,
as presidential campaigns have, of late,
shown a tendency to do. A little hero-
worship, now and then, is not a bad
thing for a nation. If the Republicans
should nominate a man like Senator
Edmunds, and the Democrats a man
like Senator Bayard, the parties might
as well dispense with platforms, and
conduct the canvass on the records and
character of the two men, as to put forth
a series of sonorous, empty resolutions.
It would be altogether better, however,

1884.]

The Political Field.

129

if one of the parties, at least, would take
up a few of the genuine issues that lie
on the surface of public thought, and
announce definite purposes concerning
them. During the present generation
we have seen the mass of American
voters educated on many great questions
by a thorough public discussion in po-
litical canvasses. Such questions as man-
hood suffrage, specie payments, and the
honest payment of the public debt have
been debated and determined during the
past eighteen years. It may be urged
that there are no such issues now pend-
ing. Very true ; a nation cannot al-
ways feed on the strong meat of great
controversies. But there are real issues
before us, of practical importance, and
it is the duty of party leaders to cease
skirmishing around their edges, and to
meet them fairly.

The Republican party, as the party
of new ideas and positive doctrine in
the past, might well be expected to lead
the way in taking position. In line with
its history and traditions as a strong
government party, it might take up af-
firmatively the following questions : —

First, the extension and defense of
the civil service system. This system
is already partially established in the
departments at Washington and in the
large post - offices and custom - houses,
where original appointments are now
made only by selection from candidates
recommended by the commission as hav-
ing passed a creditable examination.
Civil service reform, in its origin and in
all its progress, until very lately was a
Republican movement ; and although a
few prominent Democrats, notably Sen-
ator Pendleton, have of late given it
valuable assistance, the mass of the De-
mocracy is as hostile to it to-day as the
mass of the Republicans were when
Mr. Jenckes, of Rhode Island, began to
preach the new faith in Congress twenty
years ago. Democratic success in the ap-
proaching presidential election will im-
peril the fair beginnings of the reform ;

VOL. Llii NO. 315. 9

at least, the Republicans would be justi-
fied in saying so. Their platform should
call for the broadening and strengthen-
ing of the new system. The Democrats
could honestly oppose this demand with
the Jacksonian theory, so firmly held
by the great majority of them, that " to
the victors belong the spoils."

Second, maintenance of the protec-
tive tariff policy, coupled with reform of
the inequalities, abuses, and outgrown
features of the present law. The Re-
publican party is historically a protec-
tionist party, and the Democratic party
is a low tariff, or tariff for revenue only,
party. If one would cease to be afraid
of Iowa and the other of Pennsylva-
nia, and each would honestly enunciate
the belief of the mass of its members,
we should have an educating discussion
which could hardly fail to result in the
public good.

Third, postal telegraphy. The busi-
ness public is fast coming to the conclu-
sion that the telegraph is the modern
mail, and that every argument in favor
of the post-office being a government
institution applies to it. If it is of un-
questioned advantage to the public that
correspondence which goes in a leather
bag should be carried by the govern-
ment, why should correspondence which
goes on a wire be left to the mercy of
greedy, speculative corporations ? The
Republjcan party could consistently take
the lead in this question, and the Dem-
ocratic party, as the opponent of an
efficient centralized government, could
with equal consistency assume the neg-
ative of the proposition.

Fourth, a vigorous foreign policy for
the extension of our commerce and our
national influence, backed by a strong
navy. The state-department policy of
the short Garfield administration, though
bungled in South America by incompe-
tent agents, was undoubtedly approved
in principle by the majority of the Re-
publican party, who are tired of the
timid and selfish attitude of national iso-

130

Unheard Music.

lation which our government customa-
rily assumes in the affairs of the world.
Men of broad and progressive opinions
believe that a republic of fifty millions
of people should make its ideas and in-
fluence felt all round the globe, for the
good of other nations as well as for the
extension of its own commercial rela-
tions. On this question, the Democrats,
who are conservative as to public expen-
ditures, opposed to giving the national
government any real military or naval
power, and very much disposed to nar-
row their vision down to petty matters
lying close at home, would naturally
take the negative side.

Why not add, or rather put in the
first place, the new civil rights issue
which Colonel Ingersoll and Frederick
Douglass have recently tried to raise in
Washington, in opposition to the Su-
preme Court decision which declared
Charles Sumuer's civil rights law to be
unconstitutional ? This question may
well be asked by old Republicans. The
answer is that the public mind is no
longer interested in the affairs of the

[January,

negro race. A generation of controversy
and four years of terrible war gave the
negro in America freedom and the bal-
lot. Now the common sentiment is that
enough has been done for him, and that
he should make his own way upward in
the social scale. There is no demand
for a constitutional amendment which
will put the machinery of federal courts
at work to secure him good seats at the
theatres, good beds in hotels and sleep-
ing-cars, and the right to be shaved in
the fashionable barber-shops. People
are content, now that the tension of sym-
pathy with the enfranchised race has re-
laxed, to leave such matters to state leg-
islation.

Other questions might be added, but
here are enough for an active intellect-
ual canvass. Such a canvass would have
an excellent effect on the public mind.
Instead of getting angry anew over by-
gone quarrels and threshing the old straw
of dead controversies, the voters would
be led to the frank discussion of living
issues which affect the whole body of
the American people.

E. V. Smalley.

UNHEARD MUSIC.

MEN say that, far above our octaves, pierce

Clear sounds that soar and clamor at heaven's high gate,

Heard only of bards in vision, and saints that wait
In instant prayer with godly-purged ears :
This is that fabled music of the spheres,

Undreamed of by the crowd that early and late

Lift up their voice in joy, grief, hope, or hate,
The diapason of their smiles and tears.
The heart's voice, too, may be so keen and high

That Love's own ears may watch for it in vain,

Nor part the harmonies of bliss and pain,
Nor hear the soul beneath a long kiss sigh,
Nor feel the caught breath's throbbing anthem die

When closely-twined arms relax again.

Edmund W. Gosse.

1884.]

Illustrated Books,

131

ILLUSTRATED BOOKS.

MR. STEDMAN, in the graceful and
exhaustive comment with which he has
prefaced this fine edition of Foe's most
popular masterpiece,1 mentions Dore's
obvious defects, and lays stress on his
equally obvious originality and power,
as shown in several works, to which he
accords the highest praise ; but while he
asserts a likeness between the genius
of Poe and that of Dore, he seems to
feel himself on insecure ground in com-
mending this particular interpretation
of the one by the other. In fact, here
are two imaginative creations, — one po-
etic, one artistic ; both are effective, but
in our judgment they are incongruous.
The common element which Mr. Sted-
man finds in the working moods of the
two men is practically confined to their
tendency toward romantic and fantastic
themes ; in method they are very dis-
similar. Poe weaves his spell slowly
and subtly, with exceeding watchfulness
against detection, and prepares, by scarce-
ly noticed increments of feeling and tri-
fles light as air, for his denoument ; in
Dore's work, so to speak, there is noth-
ing but denoument. The latter drops
the mask at once, and conquers, if at all,
by force ; Poe ambushes, like Ariel, in
the invisible air, and captivates us, —
wins, if at all, by charm.

Mr. Stedman apparently means to
mark a difference between the poem and
the illustrations by stating that Dore
" proffers a series of variations upon the
theme as he conceived it, — ' the enigma

of death and the hallucination of an in-
consolable soul.' " It does not require
much knowledge of Poe's individuality
or much literary insight to perceive that
death was, in this composition, merely
the background that threw his own de-
spair into strong relief, and hallucination

1 The Raven. By EDGAR ALLAN POE. Illus-
trated by GUSTAVE DOKK. With Comment by

only the transitory shadow of what he
called " the Mournful and Never-Ending
Remembrance " of reality. Dore parts
company with Poe in a way against
which the latter protested in his analysis
of this poem, by pushing the suggested
meaning to an excess, and makiug the
under the upper current of the theme.
In the stanzas the lover is not an abnor-
mal being ; he is neither sick in body
nor unhinged in mind. He has drifted
from his book to his dream, from the
nepenthe to the bitter-sweet of his sor-
row ; he is suddenly aroused to the sub-
stantial world about him, and, being sen-
sitive to the superstitious promptings of
flickering firelight, rustling curtains, the
impenetrable darkness on which his door
opens, the wind without and the calm
within, — being, moreover, accustomed to
yield to the pleasure of such fantasy-
engendering sensations, — he is wrought
into a half -nonchalant, half -expectant
mood, which does not become serious
until, by gradual but conscious surrender
to the fascination of the Raven's eyes
and croaking refrain, he falls under the
myth-making faculty of his own mind,
which brings its credence with itself.
This, at least, was Poe's apprehension
of what he himself created.

On turning to these illustrations, one
finds the unity of the original, its pro-
gressive and golden-linked art, the hu-
mor of the fantastic touch, the natural-
ness of it, all gone. The lover is dazed
from the first ; he seems without self-
control. The only change of his figure
is from rigidity to spasm ; the only vari-
ation of his dream is from one spectral
horror to another. To mark but a few
of the essential differences between Poe's
and Dora's conception, the lover, instead
of being absorbed in his own sorrow,

EDMUND C. STEDMAN. New York : Harper &
Brothers. 1884.

132

Illustrated Books.

[January,

grieves for his mistress' fate ; instead of
being fascinated by the Raven's eyes,
that " burned into my bosom's core," he
is lost in mental abstraction ; instead of
typifying by his hopeless woe a fact po-
tentially of universal experience, he im-
personates the victim of an exceptional
and malign fate. We may be sure that
the imagination of Poe never saw that
rare and radiant maiden clasped in skel-
eton arms upon the nightly shore whence
flew the ominous bird ; she wandered
happy in that Aidenn far from the re-
gions where he must dwell ; sure, too,
that it was not the scythe-armed death,
throned on the round earth, that rose be-
fore him when he dreamt the " dreams
no mortal ever dared to dream before,"
— that is a very old and ordinary ap-
parition ; sure that he did not see mere-
ly gravestones, funeral wreaths, and
stiff corpses beneath that gloating lamp-
light, and that the face of only one
woman floated in his vision. But what,
we wonder, would he himself, so sensi-
tive to the fortunes of his work, .have
said to the cut in which the hero ques-
tions the Raven with the pose of a
rope-dancer ; or to the last of the series,
the most materialistic of all, in which
the lover's soul, lying in the shadow
of "Mournful and Never -Ending Re-
membrance," is represented as a body
stretched on the floor, in the deep obliv-
ion— to adopt the most charitable hy-
pothesis— of a paralytic shock? Such
designing is a degradation of his finely
elaborated art.

These divergences (and many others
could be pointed out) make Dore's work,
though indebted to Poe's for its acces-
sories and incidents, a separate creation,
to be judged of by itself. It depicts,
we are told, " the enigma of death
and the hallucination of an inconsolable
soul." The Sphinx rightly appears in
it ; for the associations of that symbol
displace those of the head of Pallas
throughout. The apparitions, too, are
such as might haunt an insane mind ;

for, to any other, superstition becom-
ing so palpable would become absurd.
The figure which stalks, or stiffens, or
writhes, through the varying scenes is
the melodramatic Poe as he has been too
often conceived, — a man of shattered
nerves, haunted by phantasms of fear,
half crazed ; the Poe of Baudelaire's rav-
ings, of Curwen's fablings, — the hero of
a thousand songs, sonnets, and elegies.
Such a preconception of Poe, such ro-
mancing about his sorrows, probably
underlie the misrepresentation of which
the illustrations are guilty. It will be
strange, indeed, if the Poe myth, which
substitutes a fallen angel for a poet,
just as Dore substitutes delirium for im-
aginative sorrow, should after all sur-
vive as popular history through such
books as this. In opposition, however,
to the impression of Poe given by the
cuts stands Mr. Stedman's remarkably
just criticism and estimate of this par-
ticular poem among Poe's other verse.
As he says, it is not the poet's best in im-
agination, in passion, or in the lift of its
melodies ; it is nevertheless his greatest
because of the wide reach of its power.
The comment makes a complete mono-
graph of its subject. Similarly, over
against Dore's frenzied drawings stands
the admirable design of the title-page,
by Vedder, marked by that self-restraint,
that solemn suggestiveness, that calm
beauty of the nobler symbolism, in which,
rather than in simple supernaturalism,
Poe delighted. By such examples of
the critical spirit in which Poe is to be
approached, and of the artistic spirit in
which he is to be interpreted, the reader
may well profit. It is hardly necessary
to add that as a publishers' work this
volume has rarely been equaled in this
country.

The Princess invites illustration by
the wide scope it offers the artist in its
diversified landscape, its romantic inci-
dents and dramatic situations. He does
not need to stray from his subject, to
indulge in " variations of the theme," as

1884.]

Illustrated Books.

133

the metamorphosis of a poem into a
picture-book is now called ; if his fancy
and invention only keep pace with the
poet's, his powers will be fully employed
and his success assured. In this illus-
trated edition * of the poem of which
the reputation as a masterpiece has been
steadily rising for a generation, the de-
signers have fortunately been content to
follow the lead of Tennyson. They have
not presumed that their eyes are truer-
sighted, or their imaginations more mas-
terly in the creative craft, than his who
set the text for their marginal com-
ment. They have simply endeavored
to make more vivid and definite the
castle, the wood, and the river ; the girl-
ish dismay of the fluttered neophytes,
gowned in lilac and daffodilly ; the mien
and command of the princess ; and all the
beauty, the richness, the charming atti-
tudes, of which the melodious and lucid
description almost excuses the illustrator
from his task. Only in the subordinate
parts, the head and tail pieces, and the
scrolls of the songs, has any original in-
vention been shown ; and even here good
taste has not been at all trespassed upon,
as is evinced by the self-restraint which
limited pictorial interpretation of the
perfect lyric, " Tears, idle tears," to the
figure of a woman striking the harp.
These numerous ornamental designs,
however, are not the whole secret of the
peculiar decorative effect which the se-
ries as a whole makes on the eye : the
architecture, the gardens, the exquisite-
ness of the minor furnishings, by which
the poet half laughingly marked the in-
eradicable instincts of woman for all
adornments, help to lend a sort of ara-
besque character to the whole, and frame
in, as it were, the beautiful faces which
look out, page after page. This atmos-
phere of simple loveliness which enfolds
the poem in its summer haze, the per-
fection of art which make the medley an

l The Princess. A Medley. By ALFRED TEN-
XYSOX. Illustrated. Boston: James R. Osgood
&Co. 1884.

unflawed thing of beauty, seems to have
been thoroughly appreciated by those
who had this volume in charge, and to
have been transfused into the general
character of the cuts, which, in spite of
considerable individual differences in
drawing and execution, maintain a very
high standard of excellence. The fig-
ure-pieces are frequently unusually good,
and show a great1 gain over those of last
year in The Lady of the Lake, to which
this is a companion volume. The en-
graving, too, is, as a rule, careful, com-
pleted work, markedly smooth, effective,
and technically finished. It is a pity that
the binding should have a cheap look,
and be stamped with so inferior a design.
Two editions of Gray's Elegy afford
new views of the long familiar but al-
ways fresh English landscape, with bits
of characteristic English accessories from
the old settle by the fire to the arches
of the great abbey. In Harry Feun's
edition 2 the sketches are said to be
made from the actual scene of the poem,
the country churchyard of Stoke Pogis
and its neighboring uplands and hills.
This fact may not in itself add much to
the value of cuts except in the truthful-
ness and vivacity of some of the nature
pieces. Possibly, it indirectly led the
artist to a certain boldness, a too strict-
ly literal rendering, in other portions 'of
his work : for example, the famous gems
that the caves of ocean bear lose their
lustre if presented in oyster shells, amid
the scientific wonders of submarine scen-
ery ; to meet the sun upon the upland
lawn does not imply walking into that
luminary ; and surely the incident of the
village Hampden's resisting the little ty-
rant of his fields did not take place in
boyhood, as it is here represented. Such
defects of conception limit the value of
the designs ; the peculiar way in which
the verses of the poem are broken up by
the irregular shape of the cuts may also

2 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. By
THOMAS (ii:.\Y. Illustrated by HAUKY FEXX.
Boston : Huberts Brothers. 1884.

134

Illustrated Books.

seem a blemish, and the gravestone cov-
er is positively in bad taste ; but there
are several very pretty sketches and
some fine engraving in this gift-book,
which will cert.-iinly give pleasure. In
the other, which is called the Artists'
Edition,1 the same injury to the beauty
of the page by cuts shaped like a stair-
way, and to the integrity of the poem
by splitting up the lines irregularly, is
noticeable, but in a much less degree.
The illustrations are larger, and the
whole volume is much more ambitious.
There can, however, be but little varia-
tion in the essential conceptions of so
plain and narrowly defined a subject.
The quiet inclosure of the dead set in
continual antithesis to the broad expanse
of what by contrast seems a more vital
nature, the remembrance of the busy
labors and the home comforts which
made up the short and simple annals of
their lives, and the scanty outlined his-
tory of an unknown youth who lies
there must suggest to all minds nearly
the same visual images, however ingen-
iously the details be treated. Thus in
this, as in the edition already noticed,
one opens at random, and finds the ab-
bey arch, the noontide under the trees,
the yews and elms, and all the common
symbolism of spade, scythe, rank grass,
and the like. The designs have a breadth
and softness quite in harmony with the
general tenor of the stanzas, and the en-
graving is, in most cases, up to the aver-
age of American work, but seldom of
the best.

Jean Ingelow's ballad, The High Tide
on the Coast of Lincolnshire, has long
been such a favorite with our people
that it would be difficult to suggest a
modern poem with a better right to the
sort of illustration which, by an admi-
rable custom, is given to brief popular
pieces. Partly because it is a ballad of

1 An Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.
By THOMAS GRAY. The Artists' Edition. Phil-
adelphia : J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1883.

2 The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire,

old Boston, but chiefly because it is so
tender, musical, and pitiful, this poem
deserves to be held in credit, and its
memory to be revived, and its value en-
hanced, if that be possible, by illustra-
tion. In the edition under review 2 the
landscape is given, — the town with its
shipping and tower, the old sea wall
with its flights of mews, the broad and
reedy Lindis, the beacon flaming over
the waste ; the principal incidents are
pictured, — the mayor climbing the bel-
fry, the old mother spinning, Elizabeth
trolling her milking song, the sweep of
the mighty Eygre, the watch on the roof,
and the death disclosed at the door in
the morning ebb. In all this there was
opportunity for effective and beautiful
cuts, as indeed many of these designs
would be were they not so often veiled
with that unintelligible mistiness which
still injures some of the modern engrav-
ing, or else allowed to melt away into
an obscurity that seems meant merely
to conceal the drawing. Notwithstand-
ing these blemishes, — for such they
must be regarded, — the book is to be
commended for no inconsiderable por-
tion of its illustrations, which help the
text quite perceptibly in vigor and pic-
turesqueness.

Although Mr. Scott has touched a
nearly threadbare theme,8 and has failed
to accomplish the miracle of throwing
new light upon it, his illustrated account
of the Renaissance of art in Italy is not
without a certain raison d'etre. This
lies in the singularly clear and admi-
rable method which he has adopted in
arranging his material. The work is
divided into four books : the first treat-
ing of the rise of Italian art ; the second,
third, and fourth, of its progress, cul-
mination, and decline. Mr. Scott gives
a concise and untechnical history of the
architecture, sculpture, and painting of

1571. By JEAN INGELOW. Boston : Roberts
Brothers. 1883.

8 The Renaissance of Art in Italy. An Illus-
trated History. By LEADER SCOTT. New York:
Scribner £ Welford. 1883.

1884.]

The Annexation of Heaven.

135

that rich period, which extended from
the middle of the fourteenth century to
the end of the sixteenth. With the liter-
ary phase of the Italian Renaissance he
deals only incidentally, in the course of
the chapters into which his four books
are subdivided. Not the least interest-
ing of these chapters is that devoted to
the minor arts of tapestry, gem-carving,

metal-work, and interior decoration.
The author addresses himself, as will
be seen, to the general reader, and is
deserving of his consideration. The
volume is generously illustrated with
wood-engravings, reproductions of fa-
mous canvasses and marbles, portraits,
landscapes, etc., many of which are
choice examples of the art.

THE ANNEXATION OF HEAVEN.

IT has been a favorite generalization
of philosophers that superstition has
been crowded out of the world by the
increase of light in what had been dark
places ; that as the ancients peopled the
Cimmerian darkness with all manner of
shapeless spirits, and these troublesome
demons were driven farther and farther
away as the known boundaries of the
earth expanded, and that as our own
ancestors in New England were troubled
by devils and witches, the woods being
full of them, but were dispossessed of
the belief as the Indians were driven
away and the woods cut down, so, in
general, that the penetration of myste-
rious corners of the globe has not only
rid mankind of one-eyed men, men with
their heads under their arms, men with
tails, and similar candidates for side-
shows, but has freed the imagination
from dire shapes that people the air and
prefer midnight to noonday. When the
last recess of Africa has been explored,
when the valleys of the Himalayas have
all been traversed, when Australia has
been covered with a survey and the
iirctic and antarctic snows have yielded
their last superficial secret, then, it is
claimed, the human mind will have
known the last footfall of ghost or spec-
tre, and a universal light will have
made impossible a lurking place for any
superstition.

We are so near this consummation of
mundane knowledge that we naturally
look for signs of the accompanying spir-
itual deliverance. Was it in anticipa-
tion of their final expulsion that the
world was visited, forty years ago or so,
by a swarm of spirits, knocking at all
doors for admission ? And, having found
a welcome, do these visitors show a re-
luctance to leave the fireside ? The
stacks in our libraries preserve for the
curious the records of human trembling,
when men were huddled together in the
centre of the world, within the borders
of an encircling ocean ; has the place
yet been filled which is to contain the
record of human curiosity and admira-
tion when Chinese, Japanese, and Co-
rean visitors ceased to draw crowds, but
unseen travelers from the undiscovered
country were hospitably entertained ?

The question is the rhetorical form
into which such speculation naturally
falls. We have no mind to go farther
than a question just now, or to consider
at all that bulk of printed matter which
concerns a commerce between the next
world and this. Libraries may con-
tain it, but literature knows it not. It
is only when books which claim the pro-
portions of art come before us that we
stop to read them, and reflect upon their
consequence to men and women, or their
influence upon literary form and spirit.

136

The Annexation of Heaven.

£ January,

When such books come not single spies,
but in battalions, we ask what impulse
sent them forth to visit us.

Three or four recent books are possi-
bly a vanguard, and one may be taken
as in some sort the leader of the file.
A Little Pilgrim 1 has been long enough
before the public to have acted as an in-
centive to writers disposed to like flight
of imagination. It recites, in delicately
chosen phraseology, the awakening of
a soul after the sleep of death, and the
first experience which was met by one
who on earth had led a life of service
and of heavenly spirit. Mrs. Oliphant,
if we may use a name commonly attrib-
uted to the author of this little book,
has taken the most favorable conditions
for picturing the transition of life from
this world to the next, and by a suppo-
sition of a heavenly life under earthly
conditions has made it easier for the
imagination to pass to an earthly life
under heavenly conditions. What, she
seems to ask herself, would be the emo-
tion of a soul, always occupied with the
good of others, when it was transferred
to a sphere where this unselfish life is
the normal and usual order ? The lit-
tle Pilgrim therefore receives the no-
tice of a change of outward nature with
no sense of a shock, but with a tranquil-
lity which springs from a previous ad-
justment of her spirit to this environ-
ment. The sensations corresponding to
physical sensations are like the old, ex-
cept that they are more subtle and re-
fined. Light, sound, touch, fragrance,
are still translatable into human speech,
but the words used intimate a nicer
shade of sense, and, in a single word,
are gentler in their manifestation.

" By and by, as she came to full pos-
session of her waking senses, it appeared
to her that there was some change in
the atmosphere, in the scene. There be-
gan to steal into the air about her the
soft dawn as of a summer morning, the

1 A Little Pilgrim. Boston: Roberts Brothers.
1883.

lovely blueness of the first opening of
daylight before the sun. It could not be
the light of the moon, which she had
seen before she went to bed; and all
was so still that it could not be the
bustling, wintry day, which comes -at
that time of the year late, to find the
world awake before it. This was dif-
ferent; it was like the summer dawn, a
soft suffusion of light, growing every
moment. And by and by it occurred to
her that she was not in the little room
where she had lain down. There were
no dim walls or roof ; her little pictures
were all gone, the curtains at her win-
dow. The discovery gave her no un-
easiness in that delightful calm. She
lay still to think of it all, to wonder, yet
undisturbed. It half amused her that
these things should be changed, but did
not rouse her yet with any shock of al-
teration. The light grew fuller and full-
er round, growing into day, clearing her
eyes from the sweet mist of the first
waking. Then she raised herself upon
her arm. She was not in her room ; she
was in no scene she knew. Indeed, it
was scarcely a scene at all ; nothing but
light, so soft and lovely that it soothed
and caressed her eyes. She thought all
at once of a summer morning when she
was a child ; when she had awoke in the
deep night which yet was day, early, —
so early that the birds were scarcely
astir, — and had risen up with a deli-
cious sense of daring and of being all
alone in the mystery of the sunrise, in
the unawakened world which lay at her
feet to be explored, as if she were Eve
just entering upon Eden. It was curi-
ous how all those childish sensations,
long forgotten, came back to her, as she
found herself so unexpectedly out of her
sleep in the open air and light. In the
recollection of that lovely hour, with a
smile at herself, so different as she now
knew herself to be, she was moved to
rise and look a little more closely about
her, and see where she was."

The new experience is tested by the

1884.]

The Annexation of Heaven.

137

familiar measures, and always the same
external likeness is found, but with a
deeper interior significance. She finds
herself dressed in a robe she does not
know, but it falls so pleasantly and
softly about her, fulfilling thus all nec-
essary conditions of dress, that she
abandons further thought of it ; she
moves forward, " walking in a soft rap-
ture over the delicious turf." She sees
people coming and going, but suffers no
disturbance from them. She questions
about them in her mind, and hears an
answer before she has asked a question.
They have died, and the word suggests
a similar question of herself.

" Then she said, ' Perhaps I have
died, too,' with a gentle laugh to herself
at the absurdity of the thought.

" ' Yes,' said the other voice, echoing
that gentle laugh of hers, ' you have
died, too.' "

This word brings the little Pilgrim
out of her confusion by the sharp decis-
ion of a clear fact ; and thus, with a lit-
tle agitation at the birth of a conscious-
ness within her of another life, she
passes into a full and contented posses-
sion of the abundance of that life.

The transition thus made, and her
heroine fairly within the bounds — or
shall we say the limitless expanse ? — of
another world, Mrs. Oliphant's task is
to resolve for her some of the problems
which the new life would naturally sug-
gest. There is no attempt at establish-
ing the physical conditions of being ;
rather, body, light, air, are assumed, but
everything is subordinated to the ex-
pansion of personality. Just as we go
on our way without perpetually feeling
of our pulse or counting our breath, so,
Mrs. Oliphant delicately hints, her little
Pilgrim was occupied by so much that
gave exercise to her spiritual faculties
as to make any mention of the corporeal
functions incongruous. She was here ;
she was there ; she had strength ; she
had rest after weariness : what need to
inquire closely into the operations of

her physical nature, when it fulfilled all
needed offices in leaving her personality
free to act in response to its highest
demands ?

There is, then, as the central figure in
this little drama, a human person, who
has lost no attribute of personality, but
has gained in greater freedom and har-
mony. As on earth the little Pilgrim
goes hither and thither in a service of
love, so she fulfills the same service
above, under conditions which magnify
her power and increase her content. A
few typical instances are taken of per-
sons coming into the other world in a
half -blind, bewildered, or lame state,
who are at once the proper subjects for
her gracious attention. It is to be noted
that the operations of the drama are
wholly in that other world ; there is no
passage back and forth between this
world and that. Only the memory re-
mains to reproduce the past scenes, and
lift them, in the light of a fuller knowl-
edge, to a truer place.

Thus the little Pilgrim finds herself
in a society. It is a society of souls,
having relations to one another, and
each expressing its own personality
through natural media. As the little
Pilgrim is a sort of heavenly nurse, so
the painter paints, the poet rhymes, and
the singer sings. It is, to tell the truth,
a somewhat artistic circle into which the
reader is introduced. One shocks one's
self by asking what the business man is
to do ; and he may be told, perhaps, that
in the spiritual world the circumstance
of earth is of little account, and that the
honest book-keeper or salesman is not
even on earth dependent upon his ledger
or his merchandise for the satisfaction
of his soul. Very true ; yet are not the
canvas, the musical instrument, and pen,
ink, and paper equally unessential ?

The fact is that the moment Mrs.
Oliphant hints, even gently, at manual
occupation a host of material questions
obtrude themselves, and it is for this
reason that we think her book becomes

138

The Annexation of Heaven.

[January,

gradually involved in perplexity, even
while she is enlarging the scope of the
little Pilgrim's experience. She hints
at a home, but takes the reader no
farther than a vine-covered porch ; de-
tail of circumstance, once entered upon,
brings a troop of difficulties with it, and
detail of spiritual experience it is hard
to give without some corresponding
physical fact.

The one fact to which the book holds,
and upon which it relies for the explica-
tion of all others, is the love of God,
and the warmth of this belief imparts a
certain glow and generous color to the
entire poem ; for poem the book is, — an
imaginative work, with a distinct attempt
at keeping all the parts in subjection to
the central idea. It is as if Mrs. Oli-
phant had selected a scheme of color,
and took pains that her convention should
not be disturbed. She has been reason-
ably successful in this, and has produced
a work which, apart from its very tender
illustration of a profound theme, may
be viewed as a work of literary art.

It is as such that we are primarily
considering these books before us, and
therefore we must confine ourselves to
this view of Miss Phelps's Beyond the
Gates.1 If Mrs. Oliphant's book was a
poem, this may be described as belong-
ing to the class of literature which has
had many excellent representatives, the
travel-novel. In one aspect, it is a rec-
ord of personal observation in a new
country ; in another, it is the develop-
ment of a personality through the ex-
perience of life.

The story is in autobiographic form,
and its heroine is a woman who has led
a life of vigorous activity and of suffer-
ing. She was a nurse in the hospitals
during the war ; she concerned herself
about the lives of factoi-y girls ; she was
the mainstay of an aged mother, a hearty
younger brother who was at college, and
a younger sister. Her father, a clergy-

1 Beyond the Gates. By ELIZABETH STUART
PHBLPS. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1883.

man, had been dead many years. In her
own more intimate experience, Mary, the
heroine, had early loved a man who had
married another, and she had averted
her eyes, and so far as she could her
thoughts, from him. She had not, as
she says, an ecstatic temperament. Life
she took soberly and with energy, and
the higher things of life interested her
in a rational way. She was not a dev-
otee, but an honest believer in the truths
of the Christian religion. " I believed,"
she says, " in God and immortality, and
in the history of Jesus Christ. I re-
spected and practiced prayer, but chiefly
decided what I ought to do next minute.
I loved life and lived it. I neither
feared death nor thought much about it."

To this healthy-minded woman, un-
troubled by nervous disorders or a too
active imagination, came a fever, and
after the fever a stupor, in which she
lay for thirty hours ; but while in this
stupor, when apparently almost lifeless,
her spirit experienced a life of years
spent beyond the confines of the body,
and within the borders, for the most
part, of heaven. The thirty hours served
as the worldly time of a drama which
involved elaborate processes and the
lapse of years in the lives of those left
on earth.

Mary's first apprehension in this new
state is of the presence of her father.
He conducts her by easy stages, adapted
to her childish condition in a new sphere,
away from her earthly associations, un-
til they are by themselves upon a moor,
when he bids her rise ; and with an ef-
fort she is conscious of a passage from
the round globe into space. " I use the
words ' ascension ' and ' arising,' " she
says, " in the superficial sense of earthly
imagery," and from time to time she ex-
plains how impossible it is to convey an
accurate notion of what she sees and
hears by means of ordinary language.
Now that she has left the earth behind
she is by herself for a while, becoming
wonted to the new situation, and adjust-

1884.]

The Annexation of Heaven.

139

ing her confused recollection of former
notions of heaven with the actuality.
Her father comes to her aid, and helps
her struggling thought to take adequate
shape. Soon she begins to apprehend
the life about her : she hears birds and
the musical brook engaged in a harmoni-
ous Te Deum ; she slowly discovers that
what we should call nature is in this
heavenly place, sentient and worship-
ing. Then there comes upon her a re-
vulsion of feeling, as she remembers the
loss which has fallen upon those on
earth, and she prays to return to them.
This prayer is not granted, but in place
comes a new conception of obedience to
a supreme will, which she learns through
her father.

" ' It is not always permitted,' he said
gravely. ' We cannot return when we
would. We go upon these errands when
it is Willed. I will go and learn what
the Will may be for you touching this
matter. Stay here and wait for me.'

" Before I could speak he had depart-
ed swiftly, with the great and glad mo-
tion of those who go upon some busi-
ness in this happy place ; as if he him-
self, at least, obeyed unseen directions,
and obeyed them with his whole being.
To me, so lately from a lower life, and
still so choked with its errors, this lov-
ing obedience of the soul to a great cen-
tral Force which I felt on every hand,
but comprehended not as yet, affected
me like the discovery of a truth in sci-
ence. It was as if I had found a new
law of gravitation, to be mastered only
by infinite attention."

The lesson once learned, she is per-
mitted to revisit the earth, where she
finds her cold body laid out for burial ;
comforts her mother, brother, and sister ;
attends her own funeral, with the ar-
rangements of which she is quite well
pleased ; goes to the grave with the body,
and remains after the sexton has hurried
away. In the vigil which she keeps
she becomes possessed of a full belief in
the resurrection of the body, and returns

to heaven. At first she meets no one ;
then she is aware of a stranger by her,
and the walk to Emmaus is repeated,
except that the Presence is not revealed
by itself, but by the disclosure of a
young girl whom she afterwards meets,
and who proves to be one wihom Mary,
when on earth, had tried, but with a con-
sciousness of failure, to redeem from an
abandoned life. This girl, nevertheless,
had found her way to heaven through
a love for Mary, which Mary herself
had not suspected, and now, being an
older resident, acts as her guide. They
come to water, beyond which lies a city ;
and Mary, fearing to walk upon the
water, is drawn across in a nautilus
shell by her more experienced and trust-
ing companion.

Into this city they come, with its
clean, well-ordered streets, in which are
no old, or infirm, or beggarly people, but
where are museums, libraries, art-gal-
leries, and a hospital for hearts ; and at
last approach a small and quiet house,
" built of curiously inlaid woods, that re-
minded me of Sorrento work as a great
achievement may remind one of a first
and faint suggestion." The dog on the
threshold rises, as they come forward,
and meets them cordially. Her compan-
ion now bids her enter, but herself with-
draws, and Mary enters the house, see-
ing no one, but hearing footsteps, until
her father again appears. It is one of
the heavenly mansions, which he has
been getting in readiness for his wife ;
and in this revelation of heaven a home
becomes a great and noble fact.

Centred in this home, she now takes
up an active life, in which the parts cor-
respond, though with infinite distance,
with occupations below. Instead of work-
ing at Ollendorf, she undertakes to ac-
quire the Universal Language. Instead
of a symphony concert in the Boston
Music Hall, with the bronze statue of
Beethoven on the stage, she attends a
great festival, at which Beethoven him-
self conducts the orchestra and chorus

140

Annexation of Heaven.

[January,

in the rendition of an oratorio which he
has composed ; and even after the in-
struments and voices have ceased the
leaves on the trees repeat the music.
She attends a Symphony of Colors,
among the managers of which is Ra-
phael, and even, it is rumored, Leo-
nardo. The spectators sit in the centre
of a great white globe, upon the sur-
face of which appear in succession colors
and harmonies of colors. She goes to a
meeting in the open air, at which she
hears St. John the Divine.

Her mother now comes and joins the
home, bringing word of the fortunes of
those below. There arises now in Mary
a great thirst for knowledge, which shall
embrace all the unanswered questions of
her earthly life, and shall be had by ac-
cess to the spirits of .the mighty who
have died. She even begins to wonder
if she may not visit a world which the
creations of human imagination have
peopled with their forms, and come to
know Don Quixote, Dinah Morris, Ju-
liet, Uncle Tom, Colonel Newcome, Sum
Weller, and other famous heroes and
heroines.

While in the midst of these specula-
tions there rushes over her the remem-
brance of her lost love, and then, as the
last drop in her experience, he comes.
At first she fears to love him, but he
informs her that his wife has not yet
died, and has married again, and he is
free. With this consummation of her
desires she ends her heavenly vision,
for her stupor now ceases ; she returns
slowly to earthly consciousness as one
wakes from a dream, and again is on the
cold earth, but with heaven in her heart.

In a rapid outline of such a book,
many facts, more or less necessary to
the development of the story, must be
omitted, yet we think we have not missed
the argument of the work. There is, as
the reader will have seen, a change in
the character of the narrator. From be-
ing a healthy-minded, reasonable, cheer-
ful, and sane woman, busy in the lives

of others and honestly helpful, she is
transformed by the exigencies of the
story into a person of ecstatic tempera-
ment, ejaculatory, even at times hyster-
ical. In this respect there is not the
consistency which was to be observed in
A Little Pilgrim. Heaven has wrought
a great change ; and though Mary comes
into the fuller apprehension of truths
which she had before dimly perceived,
one cannot help thinking that the ex-
pansion of character is not in the direc-
tion of a large,, holy life.

In another respect the book differs
from A Little Pilgrim. The field of
action is no longer exclusively another
world, but there is a movement back
and forth ; and indeed, after the charac-
ter is fairly at home in the celestial city,
heaven itself becomes in its detail a sub-
limation of earth. Is it to be said that
this is the case with the revelation of
St. John the Divine, who describes walla
and gates and pavements ? But the book
of Revelation is fundamentally an ethical
book, and this is fundamentally an aes-
thetical one, having to do chiefly with
sensations. In the approach to the ce-
lestial city, Miss Phelps incorporates
many fine conceptions. Her expansion
of the sentiment of the soul lingering
after death is rich and suggestive, and
there are single sentences which have a
penetrating power, as where she says,
" When 1 felt the spiritual flesh, when
I used the strange muscle, when I heard
the new heart-beat of my heavenly iden-
tity, I remembered certain words, with
a sting of mortification that I had known
them all my life, and paid so cool a heed
to them : ' There is a terrestrial body,
and there is a celestial body.' The glory
of the terrestrial was one. Behold, the
glory of the celestial was another. St.
Paul had set this tremendous assertion
revolving in the sky of the human mind,
like a star which we had not brought
into our astronomy."

Yet the heavenly city itself is a new
earth, and we think that Miss Phelps's

1884.]

The Annexation of Heaven.

141

conception should be classed rather with
the Utopias of imagination than with
the heavens. The vague background of
landscape and architecture, which in A
Little Pilgrim seemed to give projection
to the figures passing in front, becomes
in Beyond the Gates a very positive
foreground, and one scarcely sees divine
personages except in the distance. We
are given very marked space in which
to limit our conception of eternity.

The fiction of a dream answers Miss
Phelps's purpose in enabling her to ac-
count for the adventures of her heroine.
Mr. Baker,1 who also adopts the autobi-
ographic form, does not concern himself
with any such slight concession to prob-
ability, but boldly carries his character
from earth to heaven, and narrates his
earliest experience there. He saves him-
self by calling his story a parable, as the
story of pives and Lazarus is a parable ;
and uses the first person in telling it, in
order, we suppose, to gain directness,
and because it is a revelation of personal
consciousness. In this case a hero, and
not a heroine, is the chief actor, and the
manner of his passage into the other
world has significance. He is a physi-
cian, who saves the life of a ragamuffin
from the attack of a mad dog, but re-
ceives in the encounter a wound, which
is healed for the time, but, according to
the law of the disease, is liable to a fatal
issue even so late as a year after. Not
only he, but his family, his friends and
neighbors, are aware of the terrible fate
which overhangs him. At first he re-
ceives the homage of all men ; then his
heroism becomes an old story, and those
who admired now shrug their shoulders ;
but the man and his wife never lose
the sense of the ever-present shadow.
So, finally, when the end comes, and the
heroic physician perceives that he is to
undergo the terrible sensation of a con-
sciousness in which he will lose his per-

1 A Blessed Ghost. A Parable of the Better
Country. By WILLIAM M. BAKER. Boston:
Roberts Brothers. 1884. [Advance Sheets.]

sonal dignity and become a brute, a vile
animal, he braces himself to meet the
ordeal, provides against all contingen-
cies, and then enters the dark valley
through this most hideous gate.

We do not know, nor greatly care,
how accurate is Mr. Baker's pathology
of hydrophobia ; the scene portrayed by
him is so offensive that most will hurry
over it, merely glancing at it to take
note of the intensity with which a strong
man feels a degradation of nature which
has come through strictly physical
means. The contrast is in the calm
which succeeds the violence, the perfect
naturalness of the other world into
which he passes. " If there is any way,"
he says, " in which I could convey the
idea of the absence of anything to as-
tonish, to thrill, to move one a grain out
of the even tenor of waking life, I
would use it to make plain the fact that
never in my life had I felt more quietly
and completely at home with myself and
everything than I did in that waking
moment. So when I was with my Lord,
it was exactly as when Peter and the
rest were with him upon the sea-shore,
the grateful odor of the broiling fish
upon the air."

As in Beyond the Gates, so here the
hero lingers beside the dead body which
he has left, and considers the matter of
comforting the mourners, but is also
conscious of a Will which holds his own
in perfect subjection. " A goodly part
of the pleasure to me in this was due
to the perpetual sense I had of divine
control ; but it was merely the control
of rhythm upon music. I had long
ago resolved, for instance, that if I
could, after death, I would surely give
my wife some token of my continued
existence and nearness to her. Now I
had none of that desire, though I knew
I could have done so had I wished.
Two things withheld me. First, such
fullness of life streamed through me that
I could not conceive how any one could
doubt that I was still living. Besides,

142

The Annexation of Heaven.

[January,

I knew it was not the will of God I
should show myself to her in any way ;
and how can I express the compelling
influence upon me of that adorable will ?
To differ from it was simply inconceiv-
able. Even to desire to differ from it
was as if a wren perched upon a clock
tower should think to alter with claw
and beak the motion of the hands and
works there. It was as if a baby should
fancy arresting the revolution of the
earth upon its axis by planting infantile
feet upon and bracing itself against it.
Yes : the will of the Father was the
shoreless breadth and beauty and un-
fathomed current of things, the Gulf
Stream of all movement ; and it was in
my going with it lay to me the entire
power, as it did the pleasure of all
movement, of myself, and of every-
thing. It was this irresistible setting in
of the ocean of existence in one way
and my entire surrender to it which gives
me, as it does all in heaven, my unob-
structed power to go and to come, to do
and to be."

The revelation of heaven attempted
by Mr. Baker's parable scarcely goes
beyond the exchange of thought upon
the new life which his hero holds with
friends, new and old, whom he discovers
about him. He also attends a concert,
and he expands the conception of many
mansions, but the reader is not granted a
minute inspection of place and scenery.
The parable is forgotten ; as soon as the
heavenly company is fairly reached, the
book becomes a discourse upon a life
which has been freed from human limi-
tations, and has entered upon unbounded
possibilities. As in A Little Pilgrim, the
absorbing idea is of personality retained,
enlarged, and made glorious through the
redemption made by a Person. To the
other conceptions Mr. Baker has added
that of sacrifice as a way of approach.

Do these books, then, give us reason
to think that we are to see a new do-
main of literature, — that heaven is to be
annexed to earth in literary art ? It is

doubtless true that when a great theme
absorbs the minds of men the literature
and art of the day will in some sort bear
witness to it ; and speculations on a fu-
ture state are likely to affect the imag-
ination of poets and painters ; even nov-
elists may be thus affected. It is equal-
ly true that art, whether in painting or
in letters, has laws which are supreme,
and that in any portraiture of heaven
the essential condition of success must
be in obedience to these laws. Nothing
could be more suicidal than a lawless
picture of heaven. The keynote struck
with different degrees of intelligence by
the three writers whom we have cited
is the union of divine and human per-
sonality. They perceive that this makes
heaven, but in striking their chords they
for the most part forget this, — Mrs. Oli-
phant least of all, — and wander off into
themes which are not variations, but sep-
arations.

There was a time when art in paint-
ing essayed a similar result. No one
can look at the Adoration of the Lamb
in Ghent, by the brothers Van Eyck,
without seeing that art, in taking its
theme from the revelation of heaven,
was not afflicted by an anxious curiosity,
but chose the centre of heaven as the
centre of its representation of heaven,
and wrought with all the power which
had been given to the executing hand.
The change of interpretation from that
day to this does not alter the relation
of art, whether literary or pictorial, to
the subject. If there be a profounder
conception of the divine harmony than
that which satisfied the Van Eycks, if
the eye of the modern believer is no
longer contented with the symbol of the
lamb, but is eager to look beyond sym-
bols to a reality which knows no surer
expression than a Person, then it be-
comes the business, whether of art or lit-
erature, to be as truthful to current be-
lief as the Van Eycks were to the belief
of their day, and at least as reverent.

It would be idle to inquire at the end

1884.]

The Contributors' Club.

143

of a paper why art has relinquished
these themes, or to pursue the specula-
tioii whether some other form of art, as
music, may not hold them in reserve. It
is enough to say that if literature is ever
to engage in the occupation of the other
world it must first believe in it, and then
use its imagination to expand the known
properties. If it merely hauls into
boundless space the baggage of this
world, it is pretty sure to lose its way, and
reach no definite end. For forty years
or so we have had by our doors a mass
of printed matter, which is witness to
the struggle of human minds after a
spacial and temporal representation of
the life after death. All this while there

has been a rapid movement in theology
and philosophy, which tends to destroy
the delusive notion that eternity is mere-
ly a prolongation of time. These books
which we have cited have caught a
breath from the higher philosophy, and
it is that which gives them any value.
Nevertheless, they are still shackled by
the materialistic conceptions of heaven,
the pagan notion of elysian fields in the
future. If the religious imagination is
ever to produce a work having heaven
for its theme, and yet obedient to the
gospel of hope, it will not make it its
first business to secure a suitable other
world in which to set up its figures of
humanity.

THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB.

IT goes without saying that in this
country we do not know much about
feudal castles. Whatever wondrous rec-
onciliations between opposed styles in
architecture we may have to show, a
traveler would journey hundreds upon
hundreds of miles without once seeing
towers and battlements, or so much as
a moated grange. It was therefore
a great surprise when, lately passing
through a woodland near my home, I
came upon what completely satisfied my
notion of an ancient manor house. The
inmates, if there were inmates, I fancied
were taking a hundred years' sleep, so
mouldy and solitary was the air of the
place. With a boldness I would now
call foolhardiness, I determined to ex-
plore the gloomy mansion. When at
last I stood in a spacious chamber, well
at the top of the house, it seemed some-
what strange that I could not remember
by what steps I had arrived there. But
my attention was soon directed to the
great array of old armor which hung on
the walls. I thought of the stir that

such a trouvaille would cause in the
State Historical Society (hitherto com-
pelled to take up with Indian and Mound
Builder relics). I felt a thrill of satis-
faction that my name, as the finder,
would be connected with this valuable
antiquarian collection. In the midst of
'these reflections, I was startled by the
sound of footsteps in some adjoining
chamber. Instantly, fear laid hold on
me ; on cautious tiptoe, I hurried out
through the nearest door, and was re-
joiced to find not so much as a ghost to
dispute the passage. There was a flight
of stairs, down which I hastened with a
kind of winged speed (for I still heard
footsteps). Following the turn in the
landing, I came to another flight of
stairs, and descended this to atfother ;
and so on, down, down, until a landing,
or hall-way, was reached that had but
one door, and a window opposite. Think-
ing to make my way out at last, I
opened the door. Complete darkness.
A slight, soughing draught from I knew
not whence brought a thick veil of cob-

144

The Contributors' Club.

[January,

webs across my face. I dared not take
refuge in this mysterious limbo ; yet
something must be done, for the steps
of the pursuer were heard louder and
nearer. Quick as thought, I ran to the
end of the hall, and leaped through the
window, — not to the ground, however,
but into another chamber ! Then I
— but for artistic reasons I prefer not
to recount the manner of my escape.
There 's but one fault to be found with
the charming tales of Morphean adven-
ture told in The Spectator : the author
seems to think it needful he should re-
verse his spells, and invite the reader to
witness the dissolution of the " baseless
fabric." Why should he take such
pains, when the reader does not ask to
be disenchanted?

— Steam and gunpowder have often
proved the most eloquent apostles of
civilization, but the impressiveness of
their arguments was perhaps never more
strikingly illustrated than at the little
railway station of Gallegos, in Northern
Mexico. When the first passenger train
crossed the viaduct, and the wizards of
the North had covered the festive table
with the dainties of all zones, the gov-
ernor of Durango was not the most dis-
tinguished visitor ; for among the specta-
tors on the platform the natives were
surprised to recognize the Cabo Ventu-
ra, the senior chief of a hill-tribe, which
had never formally recognized the sov-
ereignty of the Mexican republic. The
Cabo, indeed, considered himself the
lawful ruler of the entire Comarca, and
preserved a document in which the
Virey Gonzales, en nombre del Rey, —
in the name of the king, — appointed
him " protector of all the loyal tribes of
Castra and Sierra Mocha." His diploma
had an archaeological value, and several
amateurs had made him a liberal offer ;
but the old chieftain would as soon have
sold his scalp. His soul lived in the
past. All the evils of the age he as-
cribed to the demerits of the traitors
who had raised the banner of revolt

against the lawful king ; and as for the
countrymen of Mr. Gould, the intrusive
Yangueses, his vocabulary hardly ap-
proached the measure of his contempt
when he called them herexes y combus-
teros, 7— heretics and humbugs.

" But it cannot be denied," Yakoob
Khan wrote to his father, " that it has
pleased Allah to endow those sinners
with a good deal of brains ; " and the
voice of rumor gradually forced the
Cabo to a similar conclusion, till he re-
solved to come and see for himself.

When the screech of the iron Behe-
moth at last resounded at the lower end
of the valley, and the train swept visibly
around the curve of the river-gap, the
natives set up a yell that waked the
mountain echoes ; mothers snatched up
their babies ; men and boys waved their
hats and jumped to and fro, in a state
of the wildest excitement. Only the
old Cabo stood stock-still. His gaze
was riveted upon the phenomenon that
came thundering up the valley ; his keen
eye enabled him to estimate the rate
of speed, the trend of the up-grade, the
breadth, the length, the height, of the
cars. When the train approached the
station the crowd surged back in affright,
but the Cabo stood his ground, and as
soon as the cars stopped he stepped
down upon the track. He examined
the wheels, tapped the axles, and tried
to move the lever ; and when the engine
backed up for water, he closely watched
the process of locomotion, and walked
to the end of the last car to ascertain
the length of the train. He then re-
turned to the platform, and sat down,
covering his face with both hands.

Two hours later the governor of Du-
rango found him in still the same posi-
tion.

" Hallo, Cabo ! " he called out, " how
do you like this ? What do you think
now of America Nueva ? " (" New
America," a collective term for the re-
publics of the American continent.)

The chieftain looked up. " Sabe J)ios,

1884.]

— the gods know, Senor Commandante,
but /know thia much: with old Amer-
ica it 's all up."

" Is it ? Well, look here : would you
now like to sell that old diploma? I
still offer you the same price."

The Cabo put his hand in his bosom,
drew forth a leather-shrouded old parch-
ment, and handed it to his interlocutor.
" Vengale, Usted, — it 's worthless, and
you are welcome to keep it." Never-
theless he connived, when the governor
slipped a gold piece into the pouch and
put it upon his knees, minus the docu-
ment.

But just before the train started, the
governor heard his name called, and
stepped out upon the platform of the
palace-car, when he saw the old chief-
tain coming up the track. - " I owe you
a debt, Senor," said he ; " y le pagare
en consejo, — I want to pay it off in
good advice : Beware of those strangers."

" What strangers ? "

" The caballeros who invented this
machine."

" Is that what you came to tell me ? "
laughed the governor, as the train
started.

The old Cabo waved his hand in a
military salute. " Estamos ajustado :
Senor Commandante, this squares our
account."

— A few words upon the leading
characteristic of the modern stage, at
least in England, and in America so far
as our theatre takes its cue from Lon-
don. I will begin by saying that Mr.
Lawrence Barrett, above all other Amer-
ican players, deserves the gratitude of
our poets and playwrights for his plucky,
steadfast promotion of their dramatic
work. How charming and full of en-
couragement to all concerned is his suc-
cessful revival of Mr. Boker's Francesca
da Rimini, after its merits had been
treated with indifference for twenty-five
years ! That highly poetic drama has
recently ended a triumphal run of nine
weeks in New York, at the close of

VOL. LIII. — NO. 315. 10

The Contributors' Club.

145

which Mr. Barrett made a neat address.
From his remarks, however, — and this
brings me to the point, — it is plain that
we have no " actors ; " the actor is a
memory of the past, his place having
been taken by the " artist." Through-
out the stage speech in question, there
is but .one mention of an actor, — Ed-
win Booth. On the contrary, brief as
it was, the word "artist" is used no
less than seven times, and applied to
Mr. Barrett himself, to Mr. Wallack,
to Miss Anderson, to Mr. Irving, and to
the " artists " of the Lyceum Company.
Possibly Mr. Barrett makes a distinc-
tion, judging that the terms "actor"
and " artist " justly indicate the relative
qualities of Mr. Booth and Mr. Irving.
If so, there are not a few who will agree
with him. For Booth certainly is an
actor by birth and purpose ; and Irving
seems to me an artist, first of all. No
independent observer, visiting the Lyce-
um in London, and familiar with Mr.
Irving's rise and influence, can think
otherwise. It is due to his art instincts,
supplemented by incrediole tact and so-
cial diplomacy, that he has brought all
England to accept his supremacy. Never
before was there a player or manager,
if we except Charles Kean, with so apt
a feeling for the picturesque ; and Keau,
as a st;ige artist, was years in advance
of the predestined time. Mr. Irving al-
lied himself, with quick perception, to
the art revival which followed the pre-
Raphaelite movement, and has made his
stage its mirror, and himself its embodi-
ment. His most striking impersonations
are addressed to the eye, and " made
up" from famous pictures. The ab-
surdities of his love-making in the early
acts of The Lady of Lyons are forgot-
ten near the close, where he returns
from the war, in dress and visage the
living counterpart of Buonaparte in
Egypt. In Hamlet, Irving and Miss
Terry compose a tableau vivant of Mil-
lais's Huguenot Lovers ; in Charles the
First we have the very portrait by Van

146

The Contributors' Club.

[January,

Dyke. Then his beautiful and elabo-
rate mountings of Romeo and Juliet, —
in fact, of all the plays in his repertory!
Paul Veronese, reborn and turned stage
manager, could not excel them. Yes,
Mr. Irving is without doubt an artist,
and a great one, and no setting can be
too rich and truthful for an imaginative
play. For all this I am duly grateful,
yet wonder how far he could rely upon
his histrionic powers alone ; and I am
disposed to reserve my warmest plaudits
for actors like Salvini, Jefferson, Booth,
whose passion and genius make exacting
audiences forget the mean accessories of
the shabbiest stage.

— There has always been something
of a puzzle to me in the diversity that
subsists between the two forms or modes
of working of the imagination ; between
imagination active and creative and im-
agination receptive and passive, — or
comparatively passive, for of course
the mind is never, strictly speaking, at
rest. The distinction is real, and not
nominal, merely. Among the people
we talk with, the authors we read, we
notice in how different measure they
have received from nature the precious
gift. But it is not a matter simply of
the more or less of imagination ; there is
the manifest difference of kind or qual-
ity, also. It appears that one cannot
have the higher, creative faculty, at
least to any large degree, without pos-
sessing the inferior faculty, which acts
upon images presented to it from with-
out, taking up and appropriating con-
ceptions it has not originated. On the
other hand, one can very well have this
receptive imagination without a particle
of the creative. I have a friend who is
singularly destitute of the latter, while
more than commonly endowed with sus-
ceptibility to imaginative impressions ;
and there seems something strange in
the same person being at once so rich
and so poor in this sort of intellectual
treasure. Though able to appreciate and
genuinely enjoy poetry and fiction, and

quick in response to the thousand appeals
which both nature and life make to the
imagination, she is incapable of produc-
ing anything in the line of imaginative
art. And there are others far less imag-
inatively impressionable, — some, in fact,
who are obtuse, where she is readily
responsive, — who nevertheless can -do
what she cannot, whose imagination
works inventively where hers is power-
less. I do not mean to imply that they
are necessarily the enviable .persons, and
she the one to be compassionated ; per-
haps it is rather the contrary, and the
power to enjoy widely and deeply the
things of the imagination is to be craved
more than the ability to produce imag-
inative works, unless they are to be of
the highest. I do not know if my
friend's mental constitution is an unus-
ual one, but I have observed this same
limitation of power in regard to other
qualities, intellectual or quasi-intellect-
ual. I really know of no one with a
keener sense for, and stronger delight
in, humor and wit, yet never by any
chance was she known to say a witty
thing, or to suggest a humorous one.

Will any psychologist kindly furnish
me with an explanatiou of her case
which is a real explanation, and not
merely a change of verbal statement of
it. I confess there is something unin-
telligible to me in the way a mental
force can work strongly in one direction,
and be shut off from action in another
near and parallel one.

— I lately heard a young woman say
with considerable indignation, as a time-
honored but time-dishonoring guest left
her house, that she should teach her
boys one thing : that they never must
make an evening visit lasting more than
half an hour. I protested, remembering
certain acquaintances whom I am only
too glad to have come early and stay
late ; but when we had talked longer
about this important subject, I was
forced to admit that this devoted mother
was likely to do her young sons a kind-

1884.]

The Contributors' Club.

147

ness. I should even like to have the
making and euforciug of a law that half
an hour should be all that an uninvited
guest could be allowed to accept or de-
mand. Too much time is little better
than wasted in trying to fulfill fancied
obligations to our neighbors. To be
sure, there are old and dear friends who
come now and then, at our well-known
desire and entreaty, to spend an evening,
when there is time for a long talk and a
leisurely comparing of interests and ex-
periences and opinions. But those per-
sons who are really welcome visitors,
and who have it in their power to give
pleasure, are not likely to weary us by
coming too often ; for they usually can
spare little time from the employments
and purposes which have made them
what they are. There are other friends
and acquaintances, however, who are to
be separately considered. We are bound
to each other by various ties of affection
and association, of kinship and common
interest ; we belong to the same set in
society, or go to the same church ; in
short, we have relations, either of a pub-
lic or private social character, with a
certain number of persons. We are
supposed to recognize each other's exist-
ence by paying a short visit at suitable
intervals. We pay the compliment of
making a call out of courtesy, and be-
cause of our interest and our desire to
let every other duty and pleasure go by,
while we spend a little time in each oth-
er's society. Now the system of social
visiting (which was lately complained of
in these columns, under another aspect)
means either something or nothing to
us. Either it has its use and reason,
and is a welcome thing, or else it is a
hindrance and a mockery. The formal
call should certainly be short ; and it is
apt to be short in the daytime, when
everybody is in more or less of a hurry,
and is obliged to let the fact be known ;
but it is in the evening that most suffer-
ing is inflicted. Unless there is some
permission or invitation given, it seems

a very daring thing to assume that a
family would desire to relinquish all its
plans for an evening's rest or enjoyment
in order to spend the time in entertain-
ing one person.

It is not always wise to make a rule
that no one is to be admitted during the
evening : on the contrary, a guest may
be heartily welcomed, if it is known at
the outset that he has come in for a short
time ; that he is cheerful, and friendly,
and amusing, and, in short, worth lis-
tening to and entertaining. But the
illy-concealed gloom that settles down
upon one tired face after another, while
the clock strikes the succeeding half
hours, and each member of the family
in turn comes despairingly to the rescue
of the faltering conversation, is a de-
plorable thing. We are responsible for
the state of our consciences, and if we
have allowed them to become so dull
that they do not give us the unmistaka-
ble warning to go away, then we must
not fret if we are warded off, dreaded,
and called bores. I was delighted to
hear some one say, not long ago, that
she did no* think she had any right to
spend two hours at a time with any
friend, without a special invitation, since
it could not fail to be an interruption ;
and it gave joy to my heart that one
person so respected the rights of others.
Picture some one, who has assured him-
self that he is not likely to find amuse-
ment under his own roof, setting forth
in search of a more agreeable place in
which to spend the evening. He hunts
from door to door ; finding that one fami-
ly has honestly paid its money and gone
to a play, another is dining out, the third
enjoying its invited guests, while at the
fourth he is met at sight with the in-
formation that the ladies are engaged.
Perhaps at the fifth he gains an en-
trance. One person rises hurriedly from
the sofa ; another puts down her book
with a sigh ; another comes reluctantly
from a desk, where some notes and let-
ters must be written at some time during

148

Books of the Month.

[January,

that evening, and the stricken group re-
signs itself to the demands of friendship
and society. The master of the house
returns presently to his avocation, with
a brave excuse. It may be eight o'clock
when the guest comes ; it may be nine,
and he may be kind-hearted and unob-
jectionable ; he may even be profitable
and entertaining; but he stays until af-
ter ten; everybody thinks that he never
means to go, and inwardly regrets his
presence. For half an hour he could
have felt sure of welcome ; in that time
he certainly could have said and done
all that was worth doing, and have been
asked to stay longer, or to come again
soon, when he took leave. There is no
greater compliment and tribute to one's

integrity than to be fairly entreated to
sit down for ten minutes longer. Of
course we treat each other civilly in an
evening visit, but it is a great deal bet-
ter to come away too soon than to stay
too late. In a busy, overworked and
overhurried city life, nothing is so pre-
cious as a quiet evening to one's self,
or even a, part of one. We all wish
— or ought to wish — to make life
pleasant for ourselves and other peo-
ple, and are ready to be generous even
with our time ; but no one likes to be
plundered and defrauded. It is the
underlying principle of our neighbor's
action and conduct towards us which
makes us thankful or resentful when he
comes to visit us.

BOOKS OF THE MONTH.

Holiday Books. Bed-Letter Days Abroad, by
John L. Stoddard (Osgood), is ostensibly a book
of travels, occupied with Spain, Ober-Ainmergau,
St. Petersburg, and Moscow, but. the pictorial
portion of the book is its excuse for being. There
are many pleasing pictures, with text to accom-
mny them. The text is arranged in order and
reads straight forward ; nevertheless, the writer is
a speaker addressing an audience and pointing to
his views. The device of assuming a companion-
ship in travel, common enough in books, becomes
here an irresistible suggestion of a showman. —
Good Night and Good Morning, words by Lord
Houghton, illuminations and etchings by Walter
Severn (Roberts Bros.), is eight cards temporarily
strung on blue silk, in a manner which exas-
perates the masculine mind, and makes him wish
to relegate the thing to the work-basket. — Lead,
Kindly Light, is Cardinal Newman's famous
hymn, illustrated by St. John Harper and G.
R. Halm (Roberts Bros.) with figures and dec-
orative work, all obviously symbolic. There is,
it may be said, no unity about the book, for the
figures do not represent any single personality,
but make a diverse and scattered commentary on
the hymn. — The Bryant Calendar (Appleton)
follows the present vogue of a large card with a
block gummed upon it, the literature of which
cannot be known in full till the end of the year.
The art part of the calendar is rather common-
place, and the pink of the scroll and the rose in-
troduces an unpleasant accent into what other-
wise might be a somewhat pleasing combination of

colors. — Fair Words about Fair Women, gathered
from the poets by O. B. Bunce (Appleton). is an
anthology made with good judgment, and ar-
ranged in a series of hypothetical evenings of a
club. Wisely enough, the editor does not force
his little fiction upon the reader. The tablets
and other decorations, by How, if we read the
name correctly, are graceful and in harmony. —
Pictorial Architecture of the British Isles, by the
Rev. H. H. Bishop, is an oblong book of coarse
wood-cuts, arranged to show the changes which
have taken place from the earliest days of Britain,
with a running commentary of text. It is pub-
lished by the Society for Promoting Christian
Knowledge, of which the American agents are
E. & J. B. Young & Co., New York. — The
Hymns of Martin Luther, set to their original
melodies, with an English version, edited by
Leonard Woolsey Bacon, assisted by Nathan H.
Allen (Soribners), is an admirable souvenir of the
four hundredth anniversary of Luther's birth. It
contains Luther's prefaces, and gives the English
reader the best results of German scholarship in
a clear and agreeable form. — A Little Girl among
the Old Masters, with introduction and comment
by W. D. Ilowells (Osgood), is surely one of the
most delightful glimpses of a rare childhood.
The little girl, sojourning in Italy, found her best
friends among the early Florentine painters, and
thought their thoughts over again in her sympa-
thetic mind, reproducing them in her own child-
ish dialect. The humorous and quaint commen-
tary of Mr. Howells fits perfectly with the child's

1884.]

Books of the Month.

149

pictures, and the pictures themselves recall "Will-
iam Blake and Kate Greenaway, as well as the
• Florentines. Fortunate Ihe old masters in finding
such an interpreter. — A Year of Sunshine may
perhaps be placed here, since it relies in part upon
its red lines and general attractiveness. It is a
volume of cheerful extracts for every day in the
year, selected and arranged by Kate Sanborn.
(Osgood.) It has suspicious blankness at the foot
of each page : these empty spaces, however, are
not for rainy days, but for autographs. We know
some persons who would not have a perfectly-
cloudless day if they were asked to fill some of
those blanks.

Books for Young People. The Chronicle of
the Cid (Uodd, Mead & Co.) belongs to the very
commendable class of books, which we heartily
welcome, of world's literature made accessible to
the young. This is mainly from Southey's ver-
sion, by Kichard Markham. The illustrations, by
H. W. McVickar and Alfred Brennan, have little
left of what excellence they may have had before
being rendered by whatever process was adopted.
— Our Boys in China is described on the title-page,
apparently by the author, Harry W. French, as the
thrilling story of two young Americans, Scott and
Paul Clayton, wrecked in the China Sea, on their
return from India, with their strange adventures
in China. (Lee & Shepard.) The book is a se-
quel to the author's previous Our Boys in India,
and is an attempt at a reconstruction of erroneous
conceptions of China upon a basis of improbable
fact. — Sir. Charles Nordhoff s Man-of-War Life,
a boy's experience in the United States navy dur-
ing a voyage around the world in a ship of the
line (Dodd, Mead & Co.), is a reissue of a book
originally published in 1854, but too good to go
out of print, and now dressed in the book-clothes
of the period. Mr. Nordhoff has a manly way
about him in his narrative, which recommends the
book to every honest boy. — Oliver Optic is writ-
ing a series called the Boat-Builder series, of
which the second number, Snug Harbor, or the
Champlain Mechanics, is before us. (Lee & Shep-
ard.) Mr. Adams has changed his tactics some-
what, and now makes his books less adventurous
and more educational. In this volume he advo-
cates, by the agency of a story, the introduction
of industrial training into a common-school edu-
cation; and one is quite ready to let him ride
so excellent a hobby, although his horse would
get to the end of the road quicker if his rider did
not think it necessary to make a war hobby-horse
of him. and attack the riders who prefer other
roads to the educational goal. We are thankful
for the change, however, even though the young-
sters of Mr. Optic's invention still wear heads out
of all proportion to their shoulders. — The series
of Minor Wars of the United States (Dodd, Mead
& Co.) may be taken as appealing to young read-
ers. A recent volume is A Narrative History of
King Philip's War and the Indian Troubles in
New England, by Kichard Markham. The author
has used freely such accounts as those of Gardener
and Mrs. Rowlandson. It was a pity to follow the
archaic spelling in copying the older chronicles;
such fidelity is useful only in strictly antiquarian

work. The whole story is a painful one, and
ought never to be told by itself, but as a part of
the fuller life of the communities ; as it is here
"given, the young reader will be quite likely to
misunderstand the whole business. — Another vol-
ume in the same series is History of the War with
Mexico, by Horatio O. Ladd. Mr. Ladd recog-
nizes the moral obliquity which brought on the
war, but he glories in the valor of the American
soldier- and is enthusiastic over the results of the
war in the increase of the Union and its wealth.
The book gives, what is not easily had elsewhere,
a brief sketch of the war, not too technical for the
ordinary reader, and not too burdened either with
philosophy or rhetoric. — Elsie's New Relations,
what they did and how they fared at Ion, a sequel
to Grandmother Elsie, by Martha Finley (Dodd,
Mead & Co.), may be classed among juveniles,
though the principal characters are all young
married people. They are married, but they are
very, very young, and one feels a little compunc-
tion at being allowed to intrude on some of their
very private interviews. — Stories from Livy, by
the' Rev. Alfred J. Church (Dodd, Mead &"Co.),
will be found a good book to put beside the au-
thors previous renderings of Virgil and others.
Do the publishers really think that they treat
Flaxman handsomely in their versions of his
designs? — Part Fifth of the Boy Travellers in
the Far East, by Thomas W. Knox, io the Ad-
ventures of Two Youths in a Journey through
Africa. (Harpers.) Like the previous volumes, it
is an ornate, liberally illustrated work, chock full
of useful information, which the boys reel off by
the yard, but .there is no indication that two boys
ever did cross Africa. The whole journey has the
air of having been made in a library. — The Ball
of the Vegetables, and other stories, in prose and
verse, by Margaret Eytinge (Harpers), is a lively
book, but the liveliness is that of a jumping-jack
rather than of a cricket. — The Bear- Worshippers
of Yezo, or the adventures of the .Tewett Family
and their friend Oto Nambo, by Edward Greey
(Lee & Shepard), is a continuation of a series, and
is evidently based on extensive acquaintance with
Japan ; but could not the information all have been
reduced in quantity and made more rememberable ?
— Kittyleen, by Sophie May (Lee & Shepard), is
one of the series of Flaxie Wiggle Stories, and,
like the rest, is taken up with the joys and sorrows
of very young children, whose language is less
perfectly developed than their ingenuity. — Phil
and his Friends, by J. T. Trowbridge (Lee &
Shepard), is the story of a boy who was left in
pawn with a landlord by a graceless father in debt
for his board. Starting with this improbability,
the rest of the book is credible and of no !•]•<•< -ial
value. — Mrs. Celia Thaxter's Poems for Children
(Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) is an agreeable liMle
volume to read with a child, the incidents are so
simple and so musically related. It ought to be
a favorite, with its soft printing in brown ink and
its general attractiveness. The illustrations, by
Miss Plympton.give a decorative look to the book,
but are not clearly defined, like Mrs. Thaxter's
poetry. — The Boys' and Girls' Plutarch is parts
of Plutarch's Lives, edited for young people, with

150

Books of the Month.

[January,

an introduction by John S. White, head-master of
Berkeley School. (Putnams.) The text is dough's
Dryden. There are good maps and some interest-
ing engravings. Perhaps the introduction to a'
full reading of Plutarch might have been more
attractive if it had been briefer; the bulk is
against it, but we have only welcome for an hon-
est and serviceable book like this. — Speech and
Manners for Home and School, by Miss E. S.
Kirkland (Jansen, McClurg &Co.), is a little story
embodying some of the elementary principles of
grammar and conduct. It is a photographic re-
production, the author sa3's, of certain parts of
school-teaching. There is a good deal of quiet
humor, and much ingenious working in of errors
of speech and manners. It is a good book to
place in the hands of a hopelessly ungrammati-
cal and ill-mannered child. — The bound volume
of Harper's Young People for 1883 makes an an-
nual which it would seem impossible, from its size,
to read through in a year, yet its fifty-two parts
have probably been no severe tax upon those who
have taken this watermelon in weekly slices. —
Heroes of Literature is the title of a volume for
young people, in which John Dennis has en-
deavored to excite an interest in English poe-
try by giving running comments upon the per-
sons of poets from the earliest times to the pres-
ent. (S. P. C. K., Young, New York.) — The
small reader will find nothing among the Christ-
mas books of the year more delightful than The
Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, Written and
Illustrated by Howard Pyle. (Scribner's Sons.)
The old Sherwood Forest legends never had a
prettier setting than Mr. Pyle's pen and pencil
have given them.

History. In the important series of Documents
relating to the Colonial History of the State of
New York, published for the State by Weed, Par-
sons & Company, Albany, the latest volume is
Documents relating to the History of the Early
Colonial Settlements, principally on Long Island,
with a map of its western part, made in 1666,
translated, compiled, and edited from the original
records in the office of the secretary of state and
the state library, by B. Fernow, keeper of the
historical records. The volume comprises Indian
deeds, patents, letters, court records, and the like,
a mine of curious material for the student. All
the old quarrels are here fought over, and village
scandal becomes subject for historical societies. —
A new edition of Still's Underground Railroad
Records (William Still, Philadelphia) has a life
of the author added. Here is a book which con-
tains an inexhaustible fund of anecdote and sug-
gestion for the future novelist who wishes to use, as
he will be sure to, incidents of the struggle between
freedom and slavery. There is no more human
appeal in literature than these annals make. — Of
a different sort is the historical work in two vol-
umes, by James D. Bulloch, naval representative
of the Confederate States in Europe during the
civil war, entitled The Secret Service of the Con-
federate States in Europe, or How the Confederate
Cruisers were Equipped. (Putnams.) The author
is probably the only person who could give so full
a history of this service, and the reader will be

grateful that he is not long detained over the
questions of the conflict, but carried directly into
the history of the secret service, which necessarily
includes a pretty full study of the relations held to
the Confederacy by the government of Great Brit-
ain. — Historical Sketches of New Mexico, from
the Earliest Records to the American Occupation,
by L. Bradford Prince (Leggett Bros., New York),
should not be slighted because in external appear-
ance it is a little unprepossessing. Judge Prince
has collected in a convenient form a great deal of
curious and interesting material, arranged in chro-
nological order, relating to New Mexico, and has
made his book a useful brief for the historical stu-
dent. — Oregon, the Struggle for Possession, by
William Barrows, is the second volume in the
series of American Commonwealths (Houghton,
MifHin & Co.), and makes an excellent antithesis
to Cooke's Virginia. Mr. Barrows goes carefully
over the story of the contest for Oregon, and
brings out in piquant fashion the various forces
at work in settling the Oregon question. His nar-
rative of Whitman's Ride will bring to many
readers a new and striking piece of American ro-
mance, and his study of Webster's connection
with the question throws light upon a confused
subject. — Newfoundland, its history, its present
condition, and its prospects in the future, is the
joint production of Joseph Hatton and the Rev.
M. Harvey. (Doyle & Whittle, Boston.) The
book has a curious little history. The original
work was written mainly by Mr. Harvey, who
had free access to materials in Newfoundland and
the advantage of residence in the country. He
was assisted by Mr. Hatton, an accomplished
journalist, with access to material in London; the
book was published in England, and now is repub-
lished here under the editorial revision of its prin-
cipal author. The book thus has "growed." It
is an interesting work, by a painstaking student,
who sets about a thorough representation of the
country, and if the reader will add Mr. Lowell's
New Priest in Conception Bay he will supply the
only apparent deficiency, for the authors have left
one to infer the social characteristics of the peo-
ple.— The Nature of Positive Law, by John M.
Lightwood (Macmillan), may perhaps be included
in this section because of its direct relation to his-
toric study. Mr. Lightwood has undertaken to
supplement and correct Austin's work by a use
of such labors as those of Sir Henry Maine and
Von Ihering, and his general results may be
summed up in his statement, " Law is a collection
of rules regulating either human actions or human
relations, which spring from and explain the cur-
rent rules of morality, and which therefore de-
pend for their support upon the general assent of
the people," and not upon Force, which is only oc-
casionally summoned in aid. — Mosaics of Grecian
History, by Marcius Willson and Robert Pierpont
Willson (Harpers), is an attempt to give within a
moderate compass a History of Greece, of which
the skeleton is the construction of the editors of
the work, and the flesh is composed of patches
from a great variety of authors. It makes a nar-
rative history, but it fails to explain by its own
contents why any one should read history. — The

1884.]

Books of the Month.

151

Course of Empire, outlines of the chief political
changes in the history of the world (arranged hy
centuries), with variorum illustrations by Charles
Gardner Wheeler. (Osgood.) This is a histori-
cal handbook. Beginning with the fifth century
before Christ, a map of Europe is given in colored
outline, and then follows text, containing a brief
statement of the political complexion. The vario-
rum illustrations are short passages from a variety
of authors. The plan excludes America from the
map, and gives no conception of the real historic
course of such an empire as that of England. We
cannot highly praise the scheme of the book. —
Louis XIV. et Strasbourg, essai suj la politique
de la France en Alsace, d'apres des documents
officiels et ine'dits, par A. Legrelle (Hachette,
Paris), is a third edition, revised and enlarged.
It traces the history from the Celtic beginnings
down to the end of the First Empire, but the bulk
of the work of course is concerned with the period
of Louis XIV.

Biblical Criticism and Ecclesiastical History.
The fourth volume of Dr. SchafFs Popular Com-
mentary on the New Testament (Scribners) in-
cludes the Catholic Epistles and Revelation,
and thus completes the work. It is very mi-
nute, and to our minds wordy. Hints surely
are worth more than full explanations in such
works. — The second volume of a new edition
of Dr. Schaff's History of the Christian Church
(Scribners) has appeared. It is devoted to ante-
nicene Christianity, A. D. 100-325. In the re-
vision the author has undertaken to press into
service the many investigations of scholars which
have appeared since the publication of the first
edition. — In the series of the Fathers for English
Readers, published by the S. P. C. K. (Young,
New York), the latest volume eonsbts of biogra-
phies of St. Hilary of Poitiers and St. Martin of
Tours, by J. G. Cazenove. — Perhaps we may
place here Arius the Libyan, an idyl of the prim-
itive church (Appleton) in the time of Coustan-
tine and Athanasius. It is an attempt to recon-
struct in fictitious form the life of that time.

Literature and Literary History and Criticism.
Prose Masterpieces from Modern Essayists (Put-
nams) is a tidy series of three volumes, containing
essays by masters of English style. The editor
confines his selection to English and American lit-
erature of this century. Irving, Hunt, Lamb, and
De Quincey are the earliest, and Leslie Stephen is
the latest. It is a delightful collection in attrac-
tive form. — Classic Heroic Ballads, selected by
the editor of Quiet Hours (Roberts Bros.), does
not in the main go back of Walter Scott. The
selection is certainly good for what it contains,
and the editor has kept in mind the two qualities
of such ballads, a story and a song. — The Eng-
lish Grammar of \Villiam Cobbett, carefully re-
vised and annotated by Alfred Ayres (Appleton),
comes upon the heels of a recent edition of the
same book, which gave more notice of Cobbett
himself. Cobbett's grammar has the merit of be-
ing exceedingly practical and direct. The editor
has annotated the work very closely. — Mr. F. H.
Underwood has followed his biographies of Long-
fellow and Lowell with one of Whittier (Ogood),
•which will serve as an accompaniment to his po-

ems. — Mr. George Willis Cooke, who prepared a
study of Emerson, has now produced George Eliot,
a critical study of her life, writings, and philoso-
phy. (Osgood.) Where a writer like George Eliot
has written abundantly on a great range of eth-
ical, social, and religious subjects, the task of a
critic is largely that of one who should make a
concordance of ideas, and this Mr. Cooke appears
to have done. He has the patience and charity of
a critic, but hardly the penetration which seizes
upon a central thought and turns it into an epi-
gram. — Slavonic Literature, by W. R. Morfill, is
a compilation from original authorities for the use
of general readers of the facts relating to the
dawn of European literatuie among the Slavs. (S.
P. C. K., Young, New York. ) — Mrs. Abby Sage
Richardson has edited a translation of the letters
of Heloise to Abelard, given in Berington's Lives
of Abelard and Heloise, and furnished a graceful
introduction. The book is a dainty little volume,
as befits the subject. (Osgood.) — In Topics of
the Time (Putnams), the sixth number bears the
title Art and Literature, and contains half a dozen
papers from the leading English reviews. — Gold-
en Thoughts from The Spiritual Guide of Miguel
Molinos the Quietest, with preface by J. Henry
Shorthouse (Scribners), may fairly be brought into
literature, — as fairly as the Imitation of Christ.
It is more mystical than that work, but, like it,
appeals to a fine consciousness. — The Valley of
Unrest, edited by Douglas Sherley (J. P. Morton
& Co., Louisville, Ky.), is a specimen of book-
making so unusual that it is difficult to decide on
its literary merit, which seems not striking, com-
pared with the brick-red paper upon which the
text is printed in black ink. The anonymous
writer (obviously the editor), who poses as a
schoolmate of Edgar A. Poe, relates a pictur-
esque episode in the boy-life of the poet. Whether
or not the story is invented, it has an oddity
about it that would charm even without typo-
graphical eccentricities. — The Macmillans have.
issued a neat edition of Matthew Arnold's prose
works in seven volumes. We shall find occasion
later to speak at length of Mr. Arnold's writ-
ings, and especially of his poems, which ought
to have been included in the present collection. —
The Sonnets of Milton, edited by Mark Pattison
(D. Appleton & Co.), is among the latest of the
Parchment series, — a charming set of little books.
The writers of poems of fourteen lines would do
well to give night and day to the study of the
first ten or twelve pages of Mr. Pattison's Intro-
duction to the Sonnets. This introductory essay
is admirable, as are also the editor's notes and
comments on the Sonnets.

Fiction. Hand and Ring, by Anna Katharine
Green (Putnam), is a story which relies on the
author's ingenuity in tying a hard knot, and then
untying it. — Who 's to blame V by Henry Faunt-
\eroy (Southern Methodist Publishing House,
Nashville), is an attack, in the form of a story of
Western life, upon the alleged rottenness of the ju-
diciary.— Nights with Uncle Remus, myths and
legends of the old plantation, by Joel Chandler
Harris (Osgood), is a successor to the jovial Uncle
Remus, and enriched by the author's new confi-
dence in his powers. One may be a general reader

152

Books of the Month.

[January.

and be delighted, or a comparative anthropologist,
or whatever it is, and be edified. It is curious to
see how JEsop reappears, and the Greek slave finds
an avatar in the African slave. — Judith, a chroni-
cle of old Virginia, by Marian Harlau (Our Conti-
nent Publishing Co., Philadelphia), is a tale of the
Nat Turner insurrection, and still more a picture
of Virginian life, which it represents with firm
touches. — Belinda is Rhoda Broughton's latest
novel (Appleton), in which intrigue is carried to
the last step but one. It is a feverish, unwhole-
some book, with a smirking bow to propriety. —
Vagabondia. by Mrs. Burnett (Osgood), is her
Dorothea-Dolly novel corrected, and, since it must
live, given a respectable home and dress. — A
Castle in Spain, by James De Mille (Harpers),
enjoj's some very clever illustrations by E. A.
Abbey. — The latest numbers in Harper's Franklin
Square Library are A Struggle for Fame, by Mrs.
J. H. Riddell, and Hearts, by David Christie Mur-
ray. — Round about Rio, by Frank D. Y. Carpen-
ter (Jansen, McClurg & Co.), is a lively tourist-
novel, in which a party of Americans visit Rio,
and a wedding takes place on the last fly-leaf.

Art. Historical Handbook of Italian Sculpture,
by Charles C. Perkins (Scribners), is an octavo
volume, abundantly illustrated, in which the sculp-
ture before Niccola Pisano is treated as a separate
essay, after which, in greater detail, follow three
books, The Revival and Gothic Period, The Early
Renaissance, and The Later Renaissance. It is a
pity that a handbook so convenient and so full
should not have enjoyed better printing. — The
new volume of L'Art (J. W. Bouton & Co.) does
more than sustain its claim to the first place among
art publications. The critical and descriptive let-
terpress is unusually valuable. M. Octave La-
croix continues his charming account of Un Voy-
age Artistique an Pays Basque. The various pa-
pers on the Salon of 1883 will reward the reader.
In the critical department is an appreciative esti-
mate of Mr. C. B. Curtis's unique catalogue of the
works of Velasquez and Murillo. The excellence
of the literature of the present issue is handsome-
ly supplemented by artist and engraver. Several
of the full-page reproductions of old masters are
exceedingly fine, and there are two etchings, —
La Notivelle Cathedrale, and Le Quai de Rive-
Neuv at Marseilles, — which the possessor will at
once desire to frame. — The Catalogue of the Art
Department of the New England Manufacturers'
and Mechanics' Institute (Cupples, Upham & Co.,
is an ideal catalogue. The volume contains an al-
phabetical list of 731 paintings, drawings, engrav-
ings, etc., and is illustrated by 57 full-page pictures
reproduced from the original works by etching,
photo-engraving, and the albertype process. In
almost every instance the work thus reproduced is
worthy of the careful pains bestowed upon it by
the editor, who has placed us under further obliga-
tions to him by supplementing the collection with
a series of well-written papers on various art-top-
ics. Among the contributors to this section of the
catalogue are Arlo Bates, E. H. Clement, J. J.
Jarves, Charles De Kay, E. A. Silsbee, and Mrs.
M. G. Van Renssalaer. The typography and pri?it-
ing of the book do credit to the press of Mr.
Arthur Turnure. In mechanical execution the

Paris Salon has issued no catalogue comparable
with this.

Biography. Life of Wagner, by Louis Nohl,
translated from the German by George P. Upton
(Jansen, McClurg & Co.), furnishes one with a
somewhat inflated account of the musician's ca-
reer. It is written by an enthusiastic admirer. —
Francis Bacon, a Critical Review of his Life and
Character, with selections from his writings, by
B. G. Lovejoy. (Estes & Lauriat.) Mr. Los-ejoy
adds on his title-page that it is adapted for col-
leges and high schools. Perhaps the justification
of this is in the author's statement : " The aim of
this sketch has been to point out with particular-
ity the frailty of the man, in order to avoid con-
fusing his intellectual excellence with his moral
weakness." Will it be believed that this editor,
enumerating the editions of Bacon, stops short at
Ba?il Montagu's, which he describes as a nearly
perfect collection ! — In the New Plutarch series a
recent number is Marie Antoinette, by Sarah Tyt-
ler (Putnams), which aims to be more personal
than historical in its treatment. The queen has
her votaries, though they are not as passionate as
those of Mary Queen of Scots.

Poetry. Legends, Lyrics, and Sonnets, by Fran-
ces L. Mace (Cupples, Upham & Co.), is marked
by much true poetic feeling, expending itself
largely upon subjects which do not immediately
win the reader. — Stray Chords, by Julia R. Anag-
nos (Cupples, Upham & Co.), is largely lyrical
in its character, with an occasional almost old-
fashioned air, — as old-fashioned, that is, as Moore.
— Poems in Prose, by Ivan Tourgue"neff (Cupples,
Upham & Co.), may fairly be placed here, since
the mot if is always a poetical one, and the form is
often rhapsodical. Little prose bursts, a page or
two long, give one no ill-conception of Tourgue"-
neff's sighs and breathings. — In Nazareth Town,
a Christmas Fantasy, and other poems, by John
W. Chadwick (Roberts Bros.), the prevailing sen-
timent is that of personal friendship and sym-
pathy. — Mr. Edwin Arnold has published Indian
Idylls from the Sanskrit of the Mahabharata
(Roberts Bros.), a translation for the first time
into English of some of the stories, and inferential-
ly an introduction to the great fountain of Hindu
poetry.

Text Books and Education. American Col-
leges, their Students and Work, by Charles F.
Thwing (Putnams), is a revised and enlarged edi-
tion of a useful little book by a recent graduate,
who has taken pains to collect trustworthy infor-
mation from a number of representative colleges
of their internal economy and the social life. —
Modern French Readings, edited by William J.
Knapp (Ginn, Heath & Co.), has for its leading
object "to furnish the student with progressive
materials for becoming acquainted with the cur-
rent language of France, under the influences that
are giving it a new phase of development." Thus
the earliest author cited is Berquin, and the latest
is Victor Hugo. There is a good collection of
notes. — Miss Josephine E. Hodgdon, who has be-
fore compiled leaflets from standard authors, Long-
fellow, Holmes, Whittier, and others, has taken
up Motley on the same plan, intending the work
for the convenience of classes. (Harpers.)

THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY:
:fHaga?ine of Literature3 Science, art,, ana

VOL. LUX. — FEBRUARY, 1884. — No. COOXVI.

IN WAR TIME.

III.

DR. WENDELL had very early ac-
quired a few patients in the widely scat-
tered village. Most of them were poor,
and were either mechanics, or else work-
men attached to the many woolen mills
in his neighborhood. But as time went
on he had also attracted, by degrees, a
few of a somewhat better class. His
manners were gentle and amiable, and
manners have a good deal to do with
business success in medicine, — indeed
sometimes insure a fair amount of it
even where their possessor has but a
moderate share of brains, since patients
are rarely competent critics as to all
that ought to go to make up a doctor,
and in fact cannot be.

Meanwhile, his life was not a hard
one. He spent his early morning at the
hospital, after seeing any urgent cases
near his home ; and, returning to Ger-
mantown for his midday meal, went
back to the hospital to make the after-
noon visit.

The next day, after the events we
have described, as he came, on his usual
evening round, to the beds of Major
Morton and Captain Gray, the Confed-
erate officer, he was interested to see
that his sister had accomplished her er-
rand, and was standing beside Morton,
in company with a lady, and a lad who
might have been sixteen years of age.

Glancing at the group, Wendell went
first to the wounded rebel, whose face
brightened visibly at the coming of the
surgeon.

" I have been waiting to see you," he
said. "I don't think I am as well as
I was. I feel the being shut up here.
It 's such an awful change from the sad-
dle and the open air ! Please to sit
down, doctor, and don't be in a hurry. I
must talk to you a little. You doctors
are always in such a hurry ! "

" It 's rather hard to help it," replied
Wendell, good-humoredly ; " but is there
anything especial I can do for you ? "

" Yes. I want to know distinctly if
I can pull through. It 's a thing you
doctors hate to be asked, but still it is a
question I would like to have answered."

" I do not see why you cannot. You
have a serious wound, but you were not
hurt in any vital organ. / should say
you ought to get well."

" Well, it 's a pretty grim business
with me, doctor. I am alone in the
world with one motherless girl, and I
want to get well ! I must get well ! "

" And so you will."

" No ; to tell you the truth, that 's my
trouble. I don't think I shall."

" Oh," exclaimed Wendell, " you may
say you don't feel as if you should ;
but when you say you don't think you
will, I am afraid I feel inclined to laugh,
which is perhaps the very best thing I

154

In War Time.

[February,

can do for you. Is n't it as well to let
me do the thinking for you ? "

" I can't explain it," said Gray dole-
fully, " but the idea sticks in my head
that I shall die."

" But why ? Are you weaker ? Do
you suffer more ? "

" No ; I have nothing new except a
queer sensation of confusion in my head,
and — then I can't change my ideas at
will. They stick like burrs, and — I can't
get rid of them."

" Quinine, I guess," said Wendell,
lightly.

" No ; I Ve taken no end of that, in
my time. I know how that feels. Would
you mind asking Dr. Lagrange to see
me?"

" Oh, of course not ; but it is a rule
not to call on the surgeon in charge un-
less there is some grave necessity."

" Well, I don't want to violate any
rules. You are all very kind, and for
a prisoner I ought to be satisfied ; but I
am sure that I am going to die."

" I do most honestly think you are
needlessly alarmed," Wendell replied ;
" but if you wish it, I will ask the doc-
tor to look at you."

The assistant surgeon had a faint but
distinct impression that this wish im-
plied a distrust of his own judgment,
and to one of his temperament this was
displeasing ; yet knowing the request to
be not unreasonable, he at once sent an
orderly for the surgeon in charge, and
saying, " I will see you with Dr. La-
grange in a few minutes," turned to the
other bed.

Major Morton looked better ; his mus-
tache was trimmed, and the long Van-
dyke beard became well his rather som-
bre face.

" This is my wife," he said. " Dr.
Wendell — Mrs. Morton," — Mrs. Mor-
ton bowed across the bed, — " and my
boy Arthur. They have just come, doc-
tor ; and do not you think I coakl be
moved to a hotel to-day ? "

" Well, hardly ; but I will talk it over

with Dr. Lagrange, who will be hero
presently."

Busying himself in getting chairs
brought for the patient's friends, he
glanced at them more attentively, — lit-
tle dreaming what share in his future
the manly lad and his handsome, some-
what stately mother were to have. Her
perfectly simple manners, touched with
a certain coldness and calm which made
any little display of feeling in her tones
the more impressive, had their full ef-
fect on Wendell. This type of woman
was strange to him. Her husband might
have been full forty, and she herself
some three or four years his junior; but
she was yet in the vigor of womanhood,
and moved with the easy grace of one
accustomed to the world. Whatever
were her relations to her husband, —
and they had met, as Wendell learned
afterwards from his sister, without any
marked effusion in their greeting, — for
all other men, at least, she had a certain
attractiveness, difficult to analyze.

The type was, as I have said, a novel
one to Wendell ; nor was he wrong in
the feeling, which came to him with bet-
ter knowledge of her and more accurate
observation, that the satisfaction which
she gave him lay in a group of qualities
which beauty may emphasize, but which,
like good wine, acquires more delicate
and subtle flavors as years go by.

" Mr. Morton seems better than I ex-
pected to find him," she said, "and I
know you must have taken admirable
care of him. With your help, I am sure
we could get him to a hotel ; and then in
a few days I might open our country
house on the Wissahickon, and we could
easily carry him there, — easily, quite
easily," she added, with a gentle but em-
phatic gesture of shutting her fan.

Wendell had less doubt after she had
spoken than before. In fact, his intel-
lectual judgment of the case was unal-
tered; but although his medical opin-
ions upon a disease, or a crisis of it,
were apt, like the action of the compass

1884.]

In War Time.

155

needle, to be correct, they were as liable
to causes of disturbance, and were likely
to become doubtful to their originator
in the face of positive opponent senti-
ments ; or even of obstacles to their
practical results which should never
have had any influence. Although un-
conscious of it, he was in this manner
quite frequently controlled by his sis-
ter's tranquil decisiveness. Without
knowing why he yielded, he began now
to edge over mentally to Mrs. Morton's
side of the argument.

He said, in reply to her, " Of course,
if you have a country house, that would
make the change more easy."

In fact, it seemed pleasantly natural
to find a ground of agreement with this
woman, whose stateliness made her cour-
tesy yet more gracious. She herself did
not, it is true, see very clearly the rea-
sonableness of his answer, but she was
not apparently surprised at his defection
from his former statement.

" We '11 settle it somehow," groaned
the major. " Do something ; get me out
of this den, at least. The rebels were a
trifle to these flies ! "

" Of course, my dear," assented Mrs.
Morton, " I wanted to feel that Dr. —
Dr. — you said " —

" Wendell, — Wendell is my name."

" Oh, yes, Dr. Wendell ! I was think-
ing more of the kind remark you had
made than of your name ! It is a good
old New England surname, I think.
But before Dr. Lagrange comes, I want
to say how gratified I am to find that
the decision to which my own anxiety
leads me should be justified by your
medical judgment."

Wendell was a little taken aback at
this ready assumption. As he looked
up, hardly knowing wkat answer to
make, Dr. Lagrange came hastily to
join their group, and was met by Mrs.
Morton, with whom he was evidently on
terms of easy acquaintanceship.

" Dr. Wendell is, I think, rather in-
clined to believe that the major may be

taken to a hotel, and in a few days
moved out to our country home. I
hope our doctors won't differ. What
do you think ? "

" Ah, my lady," and the surgeon
shook his finger at her warniugly, " you
have changed many folks, — I mean,
many men's ideas ; and I fancy you
are keeping your hand in with my
young friend. I don't think that this
morning, before you came, when we dis-
cussed the question, Dr. Wendell was
then quite of your opinion."

Wendell exclaimed, " I did not at that
time understand " —

" Oh, I dare say not, and I don't
blame you much for taking Mrs. Mor-
ton's view. But practically, my good
friends, Morton's leg must be taken into
account ! "

" Of course," replied Mrs. Morton,
" that is the first consideration, and real-
ly the only one."

" He has," urged Lagrange, " a rather
serious wound, and to-day a quick pulse
and a little fever. I would rather he
waited a few days, — two or three, per-
haps." Then Wendell spoke eagerly,
under his breath, a few words to his
superior, on which the latter continued,
" Yes, that will do. Indeed, I am very
much obliged by your thoughtfulness
for my friend. Dr. Wendell has," and
he turned to Mrs. Morton, " a room
in the hospital, a very good and airy
room, which he wishes Major Morton
to occupy."

Wendell added, " It is no great sacri-
fice, as I rarely use it at night ; but in
any case, Major Morton is welcome to
it."

The young fellow at Morton's side
had been thus far a listener. Now he
exclaimed, warmly, " Thank you very
much, sir ! It is a great kindness to
give to a stranger."

" For my part," said Mrs. Morton,
" I have not the courage to refuse."

" I should think not ! " cried the ma-
jor. " By Jove, refuse ! " and he con-

156

In War Time.

[February,

tributed his own share of thauks, with a
reasonable amount of emphasis. Then
he asked, " Are there nets hi the win-
dows ? " .

" Yes," returned Wendell, a little
amused.

" And is the room a good size ? "

" Quite needlessly large for one," an-
swered Lagrange, quickly, " and we are
very full. "Would you mind sharing it
with another officer ? It will be only
for a day or two."

Morton did not like the prospect, but
saw at once the need to yield.

" Of course," he replied, " if you are
crowded ; but I would rather," and he
spoke low, " have my rebel neighbor
than some one I do not know at all."

"But, dear," said Mrs. Morton, "I
am sure that when Dr. Lagrange con-
siders it he will see that you would be
far more comfortable alone."

" I am afraid," returned Lagrange,
" that I must accept the major's propo-
sition. And now I shall run away, for
fear you persuade me to change my
mind ; and I shall take Wendell, lest
you get him, too, into some mischief.
Come, doctor, let us see Gray ! " He
turned smiling to the rebel officer, with
whom he conversed attentively and pa-
tiently for some time. Then he moved
away with a cheerful face from the bed,
saying some pleasantly hopeful words of
the comforts of the new room. But as
soon as he was out of earshot he spoke
to his junior, " Watch that man well.
There is something odd in his manner.
He has a way of emphasizing all his
words. Perhaps it is natural, but I
never like to hear a wounded man insist
that he is going to die ! And by the
way, stick to your own opinions, and
don't let the pressure or notions of lay
folks push you off a path you meant to
tread. Mrs. Morton is what my old
nurse used to call ' main masterful,' but
I have found her, as you may, a good
friend. In fact, they are not very far-
away neighbors of yours. I will re-

member this when they move Morton
to the country."

Wendell thanked him. He felt that
he himself had done a gracious and
serviceable act to pleasant people.

" And what a fine lad that is, of Mor-
ton's ! " said Lagrange. " I like his
face."

" Yes ; a nice boy, I should think,"
returned Wendell.

When the two officers, the next morn-
ing, were eagerly eating a well-cooked
breakfast, in their new and cheerful
quarters, under the care of an orderly
assigned to them by Wendell, Morton,
who was in high good humor, remarked,
" By George, this is better than that
ward ! I feel like myself."

" It is certainly more comfortable,"
rejoined his room-mate, — "good coffee,
fruit, — I have n't seen an orange be-
fore for a year, — but I don't feel quite
right yet."

" Oh, you '11 come up," said Morton,
who was apt to relate the condition of
others to his own state.

" I suppose so, — I hope so ! But I
don't feel sure, and that strikes me as
odd, because I have been hit before, and
never had the depression I now feel.
Then that lad of yours made me think
about my own child."

" And where is he ? "

" At school. It 's a girl. I did not
tell you it was a girl. She has been at
school in Railway. I could not either
get her away or send money to her, and
she and I are pretty much alone in the
world. By George, I don't suppose she
would know me ! "

" Why not send for her ? " suggested
Morton, whose enormous increase in
comfort disposed him to indulge his usual
desire that everybody about him should
be satisfied, provided it did not incom-
mode Major Morton. " We '11 get that
doctor of ours to ask his sister to write
and have the child brought on to see
you, and my wife can take care of her
for a few days."

1884.]

In War Time.

157

" But I have absolutely no money ! "

On this point Morton was delightfully
indifferent. He had always had money
and what money buys, and just now, in
the ennui of illness, this man interested
him.

" I can lend you what you want. I '11
arrange it."

" I do not know how I can thank
you ! "

" Then don't do it." The major was
languidly good-natured, and had the
amiability so common among selfish
people. A West Point man by educa-
tion, he had served his two years on the
plains, and then left the army, to return
to it with eagerness, as it offered com-
mand, which he loved, and a rescue, for
a time at least, from the monotony of a
life without serious aim OF ambition.

After some further talk about the girl,
Morton asked, " Where were you in that
infernal row at Gettysburg ? There 's
no use in either of our armies attack-
ing the other. The fellows who try it
always get thrashed. I began to think
we should never be anything else but
thrashed."

" I am sorry the charm is broken ! "
said Gray. " I was in the Third South
Carolina, when we got our quietus on
the crest of Cemetery Hill. What a
scene that was ! I can see it now. I
was twice in among your people, and
twice back among my own ; but how, I
can no more tell than fly. Once I was
knocked down with a stone. It was like
a devilish sort of Donnybrook fair."

" How were you hurt ? I was on the
crest myself, and after I got this ac-
cursed ball in my leg I lay there, and
as I got a chance in the smoke I cracked
away with my revolver. I remember
thinking it queer that I never had struck
a man in anger since I grew up, and
here I was in a mob of blood-mad men,
and in a frenzy to kill some one. Droll,
is n't it ? "

" For my part," returned Gray, " I
was as crazy as the rest until I got a

pistol ball in my right shoulder. By
George, perhaps you are the very man
who shot me ! "

" I am rather pleased to be able to
say," responded Morton, stiffly, " that I
do not know whom I shot."

" I should be very glad to think it
was you."

" And why, please ? "

" Well, it would be a comfort to
know it was a gentleman."

The idea had in it nothing absurd to
Morton. He thought that perhaps he
would have felt so himself, but he was
pretty sure that he would not have said
so, and he answered with perfect tact :
" For any other reason, I should infi-
nitely regret to think it had been I ; and
were it surely I, your pleasant reason
would not lessen the annoyance I should
feel ; " and then, laughing, " I will prom-
ise not to do it any more."

At this moment Wendell came in,
and. seeing the flushed face of Captain
Gray, said, —

" I think I would n't talk much, and
above all don't discuss the war."

" Oh, confound the war, doctor ! "
exclaimed Morton. " It is only the edi-
tors who fight off of battle fields. How-
ever, we promise to be good boys ! "

" I don't think our talk hurts me,"
said Gray. " I was saying that perhaps
the major might be the man who shot
me. Queer idea, was n't it ? And what
is more odd, it seems to keep going
through my head. What's that Ten-
nyson says about the echo of a silent
song that comes and goes a thousand
tunes ? "

" A brain echo ? " murmured Wen-
dell. " I, for one, should n't think it
very satisfactory to know who shot me.
I should only hate the man unreason-
ably."

" But don't you think that it would
be pleasanter to know he was a gentle-
man ? "

To Wendell, with all his natural re-
finement, the sentiment appeared incon-

158

In War Time.

[February,

ceivably ludicrous, and, laughing aloud,
he rejoined, " I don't think I can settle
that question, but I hope you will quit
talking. I will get you some books, if
you like. Oh, by the way, here are the
papers ; " and so saying he walked away,
much amused, and in a mood of ana-
lytic wonder at the state of mind and
the form of social education which could
bring a man to give utterance to so
quaint an idea.

A moment later he returned to the
bedside to discuss a request of the ma-
jor, who had asked him to write about
Captain Gray's child.

"If you wish it," said Wendell, "I
think my sister might go to Rahway."

" Oh, no," said Gray ; " that is quite
too much to ask."

" Then," suggested Morton, " as you
are so kind, could n't you take the little
girl in for a few days, doctor? I —
that is to say, there will be no trouble
about the board."

" Certainly, if you wish it," an-
swered the doctor. " I am quite sure
that my sister will not object. Ann
shall write at once. But is that all ?
Can I do anything else for you ? No ?
Well, then, good-night."

IV.

Among the many permanent marks
which the great war left upon the life
of the nation, and that of its constituent
genera of human atoms, none were more
deep and more alterative than those
with which it stamped the profession of
medicine. In all other lands medicine
had places of trust and even of power,
in some way related to government ; but
with us, save when some unfortunate
physician was abruptly called into pub-
lic notice by a judicial trial, and shared
for a time with ward politicians the tem-
perate calm of newspaper statements,
he lived unnoted by the great public,
and for all the larger uses he should

have had for the commonwealth quite
unemployed. The war changed the re-
lations of the profession to the state and
to the national life, and hardly less re-
markably altered its standards of what
it should and must demand of itself in
the future. Our great struggle found
it, as a calling, with little of the na-
tional regard. It found it more or less
humble, with reason enough to be so.
It left it with a pride justified by con-
duct which blazoned its scutcheon with
endless sacrifices and great intellectual
achievements, as well as with a profes-
sional conscience educated by the pa-
tient performance of every varied form
of duty which the multiplied calls of a
hard-pressed country could make upon
its mental and moral life.

Vast hospitals were planned and ad-
mirably built, without the advice of
architects, by physicians, who had to
learn as they went along the special
constructive. needs of different climates,
and to settle novel and frequent hygienic
questions as they arose. In and near
the locality of my tale, the hospitals
numbered twenty-five thousand beds for
the sick and wounded ; and these huge
villages, now drawn on by the war, now
refilled by its constant strife, were man-
aged with a skill which justified the
American test of hotel-keeping as a
gauge of ability. A surgeon taken ab-
ruptly from civil life, a country physi-
cian, a retired naval surgeon, were fair
specimens of the class on which fell
these enormous responsibilities. We
may well look back with gratification
and wonder at the exactness, the disci-
pline, the comfort, which reigned in most
of these vast institutions.

In this evolution of hitherto unused
capacities, Dr. Wendell shared. In some
ways it did him good service, and in oth-
ers it was harmful. The definiteness of
hospital duty was for a man so unener-
getic of great value. He was a wheel
in a great piece of mechanism, and had
to move with the rest of it. In time

1884.]

In War Time.

159

this might have substantially altered his
habits ; but in a hospital there are, as
elsewhere, opportunities for self-indul-
gence ; indeed, more in a military hos-
pital than elsewhere, since there the
doctor lacks largely the private criti-
cism and the demands of influential
patients, which in a measure help to
keep men alert in mind, thoughtful, and
accurate. Moreover, the rush and hurry
of the wholesale practice of medicine,
inseparable from overflowing military
hospitals, was hostile to the calm study
of cases, and to the increasing exactions
which new and accurate methods of
diagnosis and treatment were then, and
are now, making. On the whole, the
effect on Wendell was bad. He did his
work, and, as he was intelligent, often
did it well ; but his medical conscience,
overweighted by the need for incessant
wakefulness, and enfeebled by natural
love of ease and of mere intellectual
luxuries, suffered from the life he led,
and carried into his after days more or
less of the resultant evil. Happily for
his peace of mind, as for that of many
doctors, no keen critic followed him, or
could follow him, through the little er-
rors of unthoughtful work, often great
in result, which grew as he continued to
do his slipshod tasks. Like all men
who practice that which is part art, part
science, he lived in a world of possible,
and I may say of reasonable, excuses
for failures; and no man knew better
than he how to use his intellect to apol-
ogize to himself for lack of strict obedi-
ence to the moral code by which his
profession justly tests the character of
its own labor.

When Wendell reported for duty, on
the following day, and had signed, as
usual, the roll which indicated that he
was present at a set hour, he was told
that the surgeon in charge desired to see
him ; and accordingly he stopped in the
little room which that officer reserved
for his own personal needs. As Wen-
dell paused in front of the table, Dr.

Lagrange looked up, and putting aside
his pen said, —

" Good-morning. I have endeavored,
Dr. Wendell, not to forget that the gen-
tlemen on duty here have not all of them
had the advantage of army life, but
there are certain matters which, if not
of first importance, have their value,
and which I cannot overlook. I ob-
serve that you do not always wear an
assistant surgeon's uniform, and that
last week, when officer of the day, you
wore no sash. Pardon me, I am not
quite through. Twice, of late, you have
signed your name as present at the
hour of the morning visit, when in one
case it was ten minutes after, and in
another eleven minutes after."

" I did not think, sir, it could make
any difference."

" That, sir, I must look upon as a
criticism of a superior's opinion. If I
did not, as surgeon in charge, consider
it of moment, I should not have spoken ;
but, and with your permission, I now
speak only as an older man, and one,
as you know, who is disposed to like
and help you."

" Of course, I shall be very much
obliged," Wendell said. It must be add-
ed that he did not feel so. He inferred
that, as he had a better intellectual ma-
chinery and much wider knowledge than
the superior officer, he must be natu-
rally elevated above the judgments of
such a person.

" It is not," continued Lagrange, " the
want of punctuality to which I now re-
fer, — that is an official matter. It is
that you should shelter yourself under a
false statement, however minutely false."

Dr. Wendell began with irritation :
" I do not think any one could suspect
me — could suspect me of that ! "

" Then," replied Lagrange, " you were
not aware of the hour ? I hope I don't
annoy you. I like you too well to do so
without cause, and, as I said, I am con-
scious that I am putting the matter in an
un-official shape."

160

In War Time.

[February,

Wendell bowed, and, having reflected
a little, said, " Thank you, sir. Pray
speak freely. I can only be grateful for
whatever you think fit to say."

« "Well, then," added Lagrange, " let
let me go a step further. Try to be
more accurate in your work, and — may
I say it ? — a little more energetic, just
a little," and the old army surgeon smil-
ingly put out his hand. " Don't spoil
my predictions of success for you in
life ! You have better brains than I
ever had, but " —

" Oh, sir ! " exclaimed Wendell,
touched with the other's want of ego-
tism.

" Yes, yes," went on Lagrange, laugh-
ing ; " but I should beat you at most
things, notwithstanding. There — you
won't misunderstand me, I am sure,"
he added, with a gentle sweetness,
which like most bits of good manners
was alike pleasant and contagious.

The younger man returned, " You are
very good to me. I shall try to re-
member."

" Well, well," said Lagrange ; and
then, in his official tones, " Have you
seen Major Morton ? "

" Not yet, sir. I have just come."
" True — of course ; but that other
man, — what 's his name, the rebel ? "

" Gray, sir. He is in a curious way.
I think his head must be wrong. He
insists that Major Morton shot him."

" That is strange," returned the sur-
geon ; " very unusual, in fact. Some ac-
cident sets an idea in a man's head, and
there it stays. I have heard of such
cases. I would like to separate them
at once, but we have not a vacant bed.
See him as soon as possible."

When Wendell left Lagrange's room
he went immediately to visit Gray. The
door was open, to secure a cool draught
of air ; and hearing the rebel officer
speaking, the assistant surgeon paused
a moment to listen. The voice he heard
was decided, irritated, and a little loud :
" I think I remember now ; yes, sir,

you were on the ground. I saw you
shoot, and I don't blame you ! "

" Good heavens, you could n't have
seen me ! By George, I never heard
anything so absurd ! Have the good-
ness not to repeat it."

" You doubt my word, then, sir ? "
" Oh, no, what stuff ! "
" Then apologize, sir. I say, apolo-
gize ! "

" Pshaw ! "

At this moment Wendell entered.
" Captain Gray," he said, " this won't
do ! You have forgotten your prom-
ise about talking. Come, put this ther-
mometer under your tongue," and with
a finger on his pulse Wendell wait-
ed patiently a few minutes. " Hum," he
said to himself, not liking the results
of his observation. Then he asked a
few questions, and wrote a prescription,
which meant decided and immediate
treatment.

" Am I ill ? " said the captain.
" You are ill enough to keep quiet."
" But he did shoot me."
" Nonsense ! You are feverish, and
your head is out of order."

" But he shot me ! I say, he shot
me!"

" Oh, confound it ! " growled Morton.
" Suppose I did ? "

" There, I knew it," exclaimed Gray,
— "I knew it, sir ! He says so."

" I said no such thing ! Doctor, may
I trouble you a moment ?" As Wendell
approached his bed, he added, " I can-
not stand this any longer. Make some
arrangements for me to leave as soon as
Mrs. Morton comes back. That will be
in an hour. At any risk, at all risks,
I must be carried to my own home in
the country. Perhaps I did shoot him :
who the devil knows or cares ! " And as,
in his annoyance, his voice rose suffi-
ciently to be heard by Gray, the latter
broke in anew : —

" Well, sir, I am glad you admit it.
And my little girl, — who is to take care
of her ? I say," he repeated sharply,

1884.] In War Time.

" who is to take care of her ? Not this
man."

" Oh, she will be looked after," re-
sponded Wendell kindly, desiring to
soothe the patient, whose diseased fan-
cies were evidently hurting both himself
and his neighbor. " Ah, here comes my
sister ! Ann, let me speak to you a mo-
ment ; " and so saying, he led her out of
the room, and explained to her that Cap-
tain Gray was very ill and delirious,
and that it would be necessary to sepa-
rate him from Major Morton.

Ann "Wendell at once reentered the
room, took her seat at the bedside, and
sat fanning the poor fellow, while her
brother left them to attend to other
duties. Mrs. Morton arrived soon after ;
and as Lagrauge agreed with his sub-
ordinate that it would now be best to
move her husband, the proper arrange-
ments were soon completed.

As the major was being carried out
of the room, he said, " Captain Gray, I
hope you will soon get well ; and mean-
while, whatever we can do for you is at
your service."

" I sha'n't get well," returned Gray.
" I am going to die, to die, and my
death is on your head ! "

Morton made no reply.

" Don't mind him," the young sur-
geon whispered quietly to Mrs. Morton,
who had turned, with a startled air, —
" don't mind him ; he is raving."

" Poor fellow," she murmured softly.

" I don't blame him," cried Gray, in
a high, shrill voice, " but he did it. And
oh, my little one, my little one ! Friend-
less, friendless ! " and he sank back,
faint and exhausted, upon the pillow,
from which he had risen with an effort
of frenzied strength.

" You won't forget to call to-night ? "
said Mrs. Morton to Wendell. " What
a strange delusion ! What a painful
scene ! " Then the nurses carried her
husband out of the room and down-
stairs to the ambulance, while Ann
Wendell, disturbed and pitiful, sat fan-

161

ning the fevered man who remained.
As she looked at him, his face struck
her painfully. It was thin and drawn,
beaded with sweat, and deeply flushed.

" When will my child come ? " he
asked.

" To-morrow. I have had a tele-
gram, and I will bring her here at once.
Yes, I will bring her ; now don't talk.
We will take care of her until some of
her relatives are heard from, or she can
return to school, till you are well and
exchanged."

" You promise me ? "
. " Yes, I promise," Ann replied, hard-
ly knowing what to say.

" And that man, — he could n't help
it ! That 's war, that 's war I He shot
me, you know. He says so. I saw
him. You won't let them have my
child, will you, — now, will you ? "

Ann had a pretty clear idea that
nothing was less likely than that the
stately dame, who overawed her with
easy graciousness, would desire to as-
sume charge of the little waif.

" Make yourself easy. God will pro-
vide."

" Yes, yes, I know, of course ; but
you will — take care — yes — you
will ? "

"I will," said Ann, hardly clear as
to what she was pledging herself to do,
but feeling sure that she must say yes
to whatever he asked, and that she was
not given tune to reflect as to what she
ought to do.

"All right," moaned Gray. "Turn
this pillow, please. Lord, how wretched
I feel ! "

Ann did as he desired. She had a
strong feeling that she ought to say
something to relieve him : " You must
not say Major Morton shot you. How
could you know that ? You must have
made him feel horribly. I would n't
say it if I were you ! "

" But," cried Gray, seizing her wrist,
" I know it, and before you came he
said it ! He acknowledged he shot me !

162

In War Time.

[February,

What was that you said about to-mor-
row? To-morrow, and to-morrow, and
to-morrow ! Stop, excuse me, Mistress
Wendell, — I am not at all clear in my
head ; but let him say what he likes, he
shot me ! Remember that, he shot me ! "

Miss Wendell was deeply distressed.
She could not appreciate the state of
mental disturbance which possessed the
man, and to her inexperience it seemed
at once improbable and yet possible
that he could have been sure of the
hand which had smitten him. It all left
her with one of those vague but lasting
mental impressions which may wear
out with time, or be deepened by future
circumstance, and which are, as it were,
memorial ghosts that trouble us despite
our unbeliefs in their reality. For the
present she put it aside ; but in her sim-
ple life it was a great and strange event,
never pleasant to think or talk of. She
stayed with Gray till it was quite late,
and then went home with her brother,
promising to return the next afternoon,
when she hoped to be able to bring the
little girl.

The following day she busied herself,
as usual, about the household and among
the flowers in her little garden, until the
hour came to meet the train, which was,
little as she then guessed it, to bring
into her life new cares and fresh anxie-
ties. It was close to the late twilight
of summer when she stood waiting at
the station. Her life had been, as I
have said, simple. Her nature and her
creed alike taught her to be eternally
willing to do for others acts of kindness ;
indeed, to be ever ready, for these had
grown to be habitual, and excited in her
mind no comment whatsoever ; so that
in this sense virtue was its own reward,
in that it made each new act of virtue
easier, and so kept calm a conscience
which was only too apt with rebuke.
She now stood silently watching the
crowd of soldiers going to the front, of
officers in varied uniforms, all the eager,
hurried travel of ever anxious men and

women moving southward. At last she
saw a conductor coming towards her,
and guessed at once that the girl at his
side was the child for whom she had
come.

" I am Miss Wendell, and I am here
to meet a child named Gray."

" Yes," the conductor replied, " that
is all right. I was to turn her over to
Miss Wendell. Here is the check for
her trunk. Good-by, missy ! " and so
saying he dropped the child's hand and
walked away. The girl looked after
him with a sense of desertion, and then
turned and faced Ann Wendell, silent
with the shy, speechless uneasiness of
girlhood.

" You are Hester Gray ? " said Miss
Wendell.

" Yes, ma'am. Where is my father ? "

" You shall see him soon, Come, my
dear, you must be tired ; we won't talk
now ; " and so having arranged for her
trunk to be sent to Germantown, Ann
got into a street car with her charge,
and set out for the hospital.

Ann was acutely observant of but one
person in her small world, — the broth-
er whose life had become one with her
own ; and she therefore troubled herself
but little about the child at her side,
save to say now and then a kind word,
or to notice that the dress of brown hoi-
land, though clean and neat, showed
signs of over use.

The girl was perhaps fifteen years
old, but looked very childlike for her
age. She had been sent four years be-
fore, when her mother died, to the
school in New Jersey, where, save for
one brief visit from her father before
the war broke out, she had had the us-
ual school life among a large number of
girls, to whom was applied alike a com-
mon system, which admitted of no recog-
nition of individualities. But this little
existence, now sent adrift from its mo-
notonous colony of fellow polyps to float
away and develop under novel circum-
stances, was a very distinct and positive

1884.]

In War Time.

163

individual being. She sat beside Ann
Wendell, stealing quick glances at her,
at her fellow - passengers, and at the
houses and buildings they were passing ;
not reasoning about them, but simply
making up the child's little treasury of
automatically gathered memories, and
feeling, without knowing that she felt it,
the kindliness and quiet incuriousness of
the woman beside her. Then, seeing a
man drop a letter into a postal box in
the street, she suddenly remembered
herself, and flushing said, —

" I have a letter to give. If father
is too sick, I am to give it to some
one."

" I will take it," said Ann, and the
child presently extracted a letter, which
the careful schoolmistress had pinned
fast in her pocket. It was addressed to
"Charles Gray, Esq." "I will take
care of it, my little woman."

The child made some vague reflec-
tions on her being called a little woman,
and the train of thought, brief as are
always the speculations of childhood,
ended at the door of the great brick
hospital. Then they walked through
the lounging crowd of invalids about
the portal, past the sentinel, and up the
stairs, until Ann knocked softly at the
sick man's door. It was opened by a
nurse, who said in a low voice that they
were to wait a minute, until he sent for
the doctor. While they lingered, Ann
heard the deep, snoring respiration of the
man within, and tightened her grasp on
the child's hand, knowing only too well
what the sound meant. A moment later
Wendell appeared with the surgeon-in-
charge. The two men said a few words
apart, and then the elder took the child's
hand, and sitting down on the staircase
drew her towards him.

" What is your name, my dear ? "

" Hester, — Hester Gray."

" How long since you saw your fa-
ther ? "

" Ever so long, sir. I don't remem-
ber."

" Well, you know when people are
sick they do not look as they do when
they are well, and your father, Hester,
is very sick ; so if he is too sick to know
you are his own little girl, you must n't
be afraid, will you ? "

" No, sir, I will try not to be."

" And don't cry," he added, as he saw
the large blue eyes filling. Then he
took her tenderly by the hand, and say-
ing cheerily, " Now come along ; we will
go and see papa," he led her into the
room, followed by Ann and her brother.
When Ann saw the dying man's face,
she turned, and whispered to Wen-
dell, —

" Oh, I would n't have done it at all !
Why should she see him ? "

Wendell made no answer. He was
himself wondering why this tender little
life should be forced into rude acquaint-
ance with death. The surgeon knew
better ; knew full well, with the wisdom
of many deaths, what a softened sweet-
ness this grim memory would grow to
have, in years to come, — what a blank
in the life of love its absence might
come to be.

Charles Gray was lost even now to
the world of loves and hates. Gaunt
with past suffering, his cheeks flushed
with moving spaces of intense purplish-
red, he lay on his back. His eyes, wide
open, stared up at the ceiling between
moveless lids, while the irregularly heav-
ing chest and the dilating nostrils told
of the closing struggle for the breath
which is life. Ann wiped from his brow
the sweat which marks the earning of
death as of bread, — the sign of all
great physical effort, — and said in a
rising voice, —

" Here is Hester, Captain Gray !
Captain Gray, this is Hester ! Don't
you know her ? Your Hester."

He made no sign in reply. Nature
had not waited for man to supply her
anaesthetics, and the disturbed chemis-
tries of failing life were flooding nerve
and brain with potent sedatives.

164

In War Time.

[February,

" Too late ! " murmured Wendell.

A slight convulsion passed over the
features of the dying man. The child
looked up in curious amazement. Her
little life gave her no true key to the
sorrow of the scene.

" Kiss him," said Ann ; " speak to
him, Hester. Perhaps he will know

you."

The child touched his forehead, re-
coiled a second from the chill, sweating
brow, and then kissed it again and
again.

" Speak to him, Hester, — try," re-
peated Ann.

" Father — father ! " cried the child.

"A little water," said the surgeon in
chief, knowing that to swallow some-
times for a moment awakens the slum-
bering consciousness.

The dying man struggled with the
spoonful of fluid, then swallowed it ab-
ruptly, and moved his lips.

" Does he say anything ? " said Wen-
dell.

Ann bent down, and again wiped his
face. This time he murmured some-
thing, and Ann rose instantly, with a
pale face.

" He does n't know any one," she said.
" Come, my child, kiss him again, and
we will go out for a while."

What Ann had heard were broken
words, sent back to her alone through
the closing doors which opened to one
world and shut out another: "Shot —
shot — he shot me ! "

" Come," she repeated to the dazed
and trembling girl, " the surgeons must
be with him alone, dear."

Hester obeyed without a word, cry-
ing, she hardly knew why ; for tears are
the large resource of nature in most of
the incidents that startle or perplex the
emotional years of childhood ; and to be
truthful, there was more of terror than
of grief in the scene for a child to
whom years of absence and silence had
made all memories of home and father
somewhat hazy and indistinct.

" I will take her away with me at
once," said Ann to Dr. Lagrange. " It
will be no good for her to see him
again."

" You will do the kindest thing for her,
I think," he answered ; and with this,
hand in hand with the child, who pressed
close to her side, Ann went out into the
street, thoughtful and dismayed. She
had seen hundreds of wounded men, in
her constant hospital visits, but no one
knew who had hurt them ; so that in
her eyes this single definite fact of in-
dividual war seemed like murder. The
whole matter of war, indeed, was horri-
ble to Ann. She somehow saw God in
its larger results, but not in its trage-
dies. How could God mean one man
to slay another ! There, it is true, were
the Amalekites and the Jebusites ; but
as to them, the command to destroy had
been sufficiently distinct. Still, this pres-
ent war was a just war, in Ann's eyes,
and her brother had no doubts at all,
which was sometimes a comfort to her,
and would have been a larger one had
Wendell shared her own religious creed,
which he certainly did not, being vague-
ly inclined at times to a half acceptance
of the mysticism of Swedenborg. His
belief in the competency of his own in-
tellect made it necessary for him to pos-
sess some views on matters of religious
beliefs, but so far he had never got much
beyond the easy goal of destructive criti-
cism.

When the two doctors began to de-
scend the stairs from the dying man's
room, the elder said, "Mrs. Morton has
written to me to say that she will be
glad to meet any expense you may be
put to about this child."

" She is a kind and generous woman,
I should think," replied Wendell.

" Well, yes, in a cool, quiet way she
is. I like her myself, and you will find,
if you don't cross her views, that she
will be a good friend. But that is her
trouble. She respects none but manly,
resolute men, and yet she dearly loves

1884.]

A Trio for Twelfth-Night.

165

her own way. Money is a very little
thing to her, and to Morton also. What
a rapid case of pyaemia ! I wish one
understood it better, or that somebody
could take it up and work at it. We
have plenty of material. Why could
not you try your hand ? "

" I have been thinking of it," said
Wendell.

In fact, he was always planning some
valuable research, but was never ener-
getic enough to overcome the incessant
obstacles which make research so diffi-
cult.

" We will talk it over," said Dr. La-
grange. " What do you think of Jones,
in Number Five ? He seems to me a
malingerer, and a poor actor at that."

And so the talk went from the fre-
quent tragedy of death to-its causes, and
thence to the hospital work and disci-
pline ; the scamps who were feigning
illness ; and who were well enough to go

to the front, who must be discharged,
who be turned over to the provost mar-
shal.

The contrasts in a doctor's life are
always striking, and were never more
so than in the splendid and terrible
years of our great war, which added a
long list of novel duties and a training
foreign to his ordinary existence. These
two men, coming from the every-day ca-
lamity of a death-bed, instantly set aside
the emotions and impressions, which no
repetition ever quite destroys for the
most callous doctor, and began to discuss
the scientific aspects of the disease with
which they had been so vainly battling.
They both felt more or less the sense of
defeat which waits for the physician as
he leaves the room of the dying, — a
keener discomfort than the unthinking
public can well imagine ; but both were
able to lose it in their interest in that
which caused it.

£ Weir Mitchell.

A TRIO FOR TWELFTH-NIGHT.

WHO first brought man the morning dream
Of a world's hero? Whence the gleam
Which grew to glory full and sweet
As the wide wealth of waving wheat

Springs from one grain of corn?
What drew the spirits of earth's gray prime
To lean out frotn their tower of time
Toward the small sound of Hope's far chime

Heard betwixt night and morn ?

First it was sung by heaven; then scrolled
By the scribe-stars on leaves of gold
In that long-buried book of Seth,
Which slept a secret deep as death,

Unknown to men forlorn,
Till a seer touched a jasper lid
In a sand-sunken pyramid,
And out the oracular secret slid,

Betwixt the night and morn.

166 A Trio for Twelfth-Night. [February,

Zarathustra, Bactria's king, next said,
" When in the sky's blue garden-bed
A lily-petaled star shall fold
A human shape, the gift foretold

Shall blossom and be born :
Then shall the world-tides flow reversed,
New gods shall rise, the last be first,
And the best come from out the worst,

As night gives birth to morn."

ii.

So while the drowsed earth swooned and slept
Mute holy men their vigils kept,
By twelve and twelve : as light decayed,
They marked through evening's rosy shade

The curled moon's coming horn,
All stars that fed in silent flock,
And each tossed meteor's back-blown lock.
So watched they from their wind-swept rock,

Betwixt the night and morn.

Slow centuries passed ; at last there came
By night a dawn of silver flame,
"Whose flower-like heart grew white and round
To a smooth, perfect pearl, with sound

Of music planet^born,
In whose clear disk a fair child lay,
And " Follow me " was heard to say :
Round him the pale stars fled away

As night before the morn.

Forthwith from morning's crimson gate
The Three Kings rode in morning state
Across Ulai's storied stream,
With westward wistful eyes agleam,

As pilgrims westward borae,
They left the tide to sing old deeds,
The stork to plash half-hid in reeds :
A thousand spears, a thousand steeds,

They rode 'twixt night and morn.

in.

Melchior had coat and shoes of red,
And a pure alb sewn with gold thread;
Beneath a tire of Syrian mode
Streamed the soft storm of hair that snowed

From cheek and chin unshorn ;
Down to the ground his saffron pall
Fell as warm sunbeams earthward fall,
And he, sun-like, seemed king of all,

Betwixt the night and morn.

1884.] A Trio for Twelfth-NlgU. 167

Red-robed, red-sandaled, golden-clad,
Came Gaspar, beardless as a lad :
Through his fair hair's divided stream
His red cheeks glowed as poppies gleam

Through sheaves of yellow corn.
Love's life iu him was scarce fulfilled,
Like as when daybreak shadows yield
Night's iron lids lie half unsealed

In colors of the morn.

Bronzed Balthasar, with beard thick-fed,
Came last, in tunic royal red
And broidered alb and yellow shoon.
With him life's rose had touched its noon,

And died and left the thorn, —
Which proved by its sharp, thrilling heat
That larger life is less complete
Till the heart's bitter grows to sweet,

As night melts into morn.

IV.

Said Melchior, " In blue silk I fold
The rock's best fruit, red-hearted gold:
So grant us, mighty Mother East,
One who shall raise thy power decreased,

And break Rome's pride and scorn,
Till our red, wine-warm world hath sent
Its breath through the cold West, and blent
The Orient with the Occident

In one wide sea of morn."

Said Gaspar, " I bring frankincense
From Caraman's hills, whose thickets dense
Hide the balm-bleeding bark which feeds
The fuming shrine with fragrant seeds :

So may this child, when born,
Be Love's high Lord, and yield his love
As incense, and draw down the Dove
To crown his brows in sign thereof,

Betwixt the night and morn."

Said Balthasar, " And I bring myrrh,

In death and life man's minister ;

Which braves decay as burial-balm, ^

Or, mixed with wine, brings the deep calm

Which power and love both scorn :
Such be this child, — God's answering breath
To the one prayer the whole world saith,
' Oh, grant us myrrh for pain and death,
Betwixt our night and morn.' "

168 A Trio for Twelfth-Night. [February,

Twice fifty sennights o'er them bent
The fierce blue weight of firmament.
Through sea-like sands they still pursued
The unsetting star, until it stood

Above where, travail-worn,
A new-made mother smiled, whose head
Lay near the stalled ox, as she fed
Her babe from her warm heart, on bed

Of straw, 'twixt night and morn.

As day new-sprung from drooping day,
Near her in shrining light he lay,
And made the darkness beautiful.
Couched on low straw and flakes of wool

From Bethlehem's lambs late-shorn,
He seemed a star which clouds enfold,
Swathed with soft fire and aureoled
With sun-born beams of tender gold,

The very star of morn.

At her son's feet the kingly Three
Laid, with bowed head and bended knee,
Their gold and frankincense and myrrh,
Nor tarried, — so the interpreter

Of God's dream once did warn, —
But hied them home ere the day broke;
While without awe the neighbor folk
Flocked to the door, and looked and spoke,

Betwixt the night and morn.

VI.

A tall centurion first drew near,
Brass-booted, on whose crest sat Fear.
He bent low to the fragrant bed,
With beard coal-black and cheek rust-red,

And each palm hard as horn;
Quoth he, " Our old gods' empire shakes,
Mehercule ! Now this babe o'ertakes
All that our Venus-Mother makes

Betwixt the night and morn."

A shepherd spake : " Behold the Lamb,
Who ere he reign as heaven's I AM
^ Must undergo and overcome,

As sheep before the shearers dumb,

Unfriended, faint, forlorn.
Him then as King the skies shall greet,
And with strewn stars beneath his feet
This Lamb shall couch in God's gold seat,

And rule from night to morn."

1884.] A Trio for Twelfth-Night. 169

A woman of the city came,
Who said, "In me hope conquers shame.
Four names in this child's line shall be
As signs to all who love like me, —

God pities where men scorn :
Dame Rahab, Bathshebah, forsooth,
Tamar, whose love outloved man's truth,
And she cast out, sweet alien Ruth,

Betwixt the night and morn."

VII.

Next Joseph, spouse of Mary, came, —
Joseph Bar-Panther was his name, —
Who said, " This babe, Lord God, is thine
Only begotten Son divine,

As thou didst me forewarn ;
And I will stand beside his throne,
And all the lands shall be his own
Which the sun girds with burning zone,

And leads from night to morn."

Said Zacharias, " Love and will
With God make all things possible.
Shall God be childless ? God unwed ?
Nay ; see God's first-born in this bed

Which kings with gifts adorn.
I would this babe might be at least
As I, an incense-burning priest,
Till all man's incense-fires have ceased,

Betwixt the night and morn."

Whereat his wife Elisabeth:
"My thoughts are on the myrrh, since death
Shades my sere cheek, which, as a shore,
Is wrought with wrinkles o'er and o'er.

Now be this child new-born
A prophet, like my prophet-boy, —
A voice to shake down and destroy
Throne, shrine, each carved and painted toy,

Betwixt the night and morn."

But Mary, God's pure lily, smiled :
" Lord, with thy manhood crown my child, —
More man, more God ; for they who shine
Most human shall be most divine.

Of those I think no scorn,
King, prophet, priest, when worlds began ;
But higher than these my prayer and plan:
Oh, make my child the Perfect Man,

The Star 'twixt night and morn."
VOL. LIII. — NO. 316. 12 H. Bernard Carpenter.

170

Voices of Power.

[February,

VOICES OF POWER.

To every one who considers the mat-
ter, it must be evident that the voices
of power are numerous. The novelist,
the essayist, the critic, the orator, the
singer, the poet, the merchant, the finan-
cier, has each his organ. But there are
some sources of influence which all ac-
knowledge, partly because they are es-
tablished, partly because they are prom-
inent, partly because they are universally
popular. One or two of these will here
be touched on. There is a current im-
pression that the days of pulpit influence
are numbered ; that preaching is out of
date ; that the Sunday orator has had his
time, — a most important and influential
time, it is admitted, but still a period
that is ended, to be succeeded in the
future by a new dispensation, in which
the spoken word will be less and less
indispensable to human needs. It is the
fashion in some quarters to speak of
pulpit oratory in terms of criticism, dis-
respect, and even of disbelief, as of out-
grown machinery. We are told of the
small number of churches as compared
with the population of the cities, of the
relatively thin attendance, of the listless
audiences, of the lowered standard of re-
finement on the part of hearers, of the
diminished spiritual force of speakers,
of the declining tendency to confess
authority in doctrinal affairs ; and the in-
timation is freely given out — supported
sometimes by argument, sometimes by
facts, not seldom by sarcasm — that the
whistling of idle wind and the creaking
of officious pulleys have taken the place
of the once trumpet-toned gospel.

For this belief there are good reasons,
— better than can be expressed in the
form of statistics. It is very true that
other agencies have to a great extent
supplanted the pulpit and taken away a
large portion of its ancient office. The
preacher is no longer the educated man

of the community, the instructor in sci-
ence, philosophy, literature. lie is not,
of necessity, the best scholar, the most
accomplished writer, the deepest thinker,
the most persuasive speaker. He has
no longer the whole advantage of aca-
demic training. In a period quite with-
in the recollection of living men there
were few books, no magazines or cheap
papers. Public libraries were almost
unknown, — wholly inaccessible to the
multitude. There was scarcely any lit-
erature, or wide-spread knowledge. The
clergyman's collection of printed vol-
umes was mainly theological. He alone
propounded questions, and gave answers
to them. He alone was acquainted with
prevalent thoughts. Learning was ex-
pensive, and hard to get outside of great
universities, where the minister was ed-
ucated. The day is not so very far dis-
tant in the past when it was a matter
of personal distinction as well as of pro-
fessional necessity to accumulate wis-
dom. Clergymen were thus educated to
speak, — the only people who were well
qualified to express an opinion, not on
subjects of religion only, but on topics
of society and politics as well. They
were the oracles of the period, the ed-
ucated and richly furnished minds, the
possessors of the science and sagacity of
their age. That period is ended. Books
of every description are multiplied ; mag-
azines are cheap ; newspapers are pub-
lished by the myriad ; people read as
they run ; information, knowledge, in-
tellectual stimulus, may be had in large
measure outside of churches, — more
readily outside than inside.

Moreover, there is the institution of
the popular lecturer. Here is a speaker
who travels over the country, drawing
audiences from all classes, dealing with
secular themes, arid mingling wit with
wisdom according to ability. He does

1884.]

Voices of Power.

171

not appeal to authority ; he does not re-
sort to tradition. He aims at instruc-
tion ; but his chief object is entertain-
ment, and the combination is found attrac-
tive to the commou ear. The favorite
lecturer is, in many instances, a preach-
er, who lays by the solemnity of the
pulpit manner, and thus helps to under-
mine his profession while seeming to
extend its influence : for the arts by
which he attracts and holds his auditors
are thoroughly popular ; he addresses
the average intelligence, and he assumes
as the ultimate criterion of excellence
the common reason. When the lecturer
is not a clergyman, he is a lay preacher ;
and if he is an eloquent man, as he often
is, his platform takes precedence of the
pulpit, his words are -listened to with
delight, and his method gradually affects
the treatment of religious themes, until
the very essence of religious thought
is qualified, and the sermon is deprived
of its peculiar character. In a word, it
ceases to be a sermon, and becomes an.
address.

There is a substantial difference be-
tween the two modes of speech. It must
not be forgotten that, under one or an-
other form, the preacher assumes the
fact of divine revelation either as truth
directly imparted, or as a spiritual in-
stinct, or as a philosophy of intuition
that pledges the recipient to certain car-
dinal beliefs of the soul. But criticism
throws doubt on the existence of out-
ward communications of knowledge,

O '

philosophy discredits intuitive presenti-
ments, and skepticism cavils at the no-
tion of an implanted instinct. The age
resents dictation, in an era of magazines
and newspapers and journals and re-
ports, of conventions, meetings, and dis-
cussions. When men come face to face
with each other, and talk things over
on rational principles ; requiring knowl-
edge ; demanding that problems shall be
considered on their merits, that speech
shall be frank and precise, that mystery
shall be discarded, and dogmatism con-

demned, and preaching set at naught,
and feeling subordinated to argument,
there is impatience of pretension, rest-
iveness under authority, a disposition to
break away from tradition. The preach-
er relies on formulated ideas ; he claims
to speak the absolute truth, to bring a
message from the Holy Spirit. The as-
sumption is now somewhat attenuated,
but it is very old The Hebrew prophet,
who better than any other corresponds
to the modern preacher, arrogated to
himself the right to speak in the name
of Jehovah. He was the Lord's repre-
sentative. He disclaimed all ability of
his own, made himself of no reputation,
claimed no private wisdom or virtue,
called himself a servant, and was ac-
cepted accordingly. Jesus gave voice
to the best anticipations of his race.
The promise made to Abraham was the
message that dropped graciously from
his lips. The proclamation of the king-
dom of heaven was the ancient announce-
ment of the Messianic reign. It was
not he who founded the heavenly dis-
pensation on any authority of his own.
He spoke for his Father. Paul planted
his feet on the rock of the old covenant.
The Church of Rome regarded the Pope
as the Lord's vicegerent, the source of
all spiritual illumination, from whom
power descended to the inferior priest-
hood. In the Protestant churches the
preacher was the leading figure, and
whenever he felt the presence of a holier
spirit behind him than had visited his
predecessors, a fresh inspiration from
the incarnate Word, his heart was aflame
with the Holy Ghost. The modern
preacher goes through certain prescribed
courses of study in a " school of the
prophets." He takes his diploma from
the constituted authorities. He is or-
dained by the solemn laying on of
hands. He is set apart for a peculiar
work. He is consecrated a servant or
minister of the Highest. Henceforth he
speaks words that are put into his
mouth. He does not argue ; he an-

172

Voices of Power.

[February,

nounces, declares, affirms. There are cer-
tain truths he takes for granted, certain
things he knows without experiment.
If he chooses to utter his thought on
any secular subject, he does not put
himself exactly on a level with common
reasoners. One will hardly take up a
pamphlet written by a clergyman with-
out encountering this peculiarity. The
man is a dogmatist on principle. lie
cannot be anything else. Dogmatism
belongs to the profession. It is fortu-
nate for him if it does not eat into his
nature.

The skepticism of this generation is
of a character to bear directly on the
existence of the pulpit. It is rather
a matter of temperament than of judg-
ment. It affects conduct more than
opinion, being not so much a settled
form of reasoned unbelief as a practical
disinclination to turn the thoughts in an
ecclesiastical direction. The element of
" common sense " is larger in it than
the element of knowledge. It touches
the more cultivated and the more in-
tellectually occupied classes. Literary
men, as a rule, do not go to church.
They prefer to stay at home, and read
or write ; naturally finding more pleas-
ure in books that engage them than in
sermons that do not. The men of sci-
ence employ the quiet Sunday hours in
making researches in their several de-
partments. The time- is especially fa-
vorable to the nicer experiments of the
new physiology. The philosophical stu-
dent pursues his studies, uninterrupted
by duties or by visitors. When class-
rooms are closed and offices are shut,
then is his hour for close examination.
Then he can be alone, can read his fa-
vorite authors, can enlarge his mind.
It is his day of recreation and of rest.

Again, the comic disposition of an
age fond of entertainment, amusement,
laughter, disliking grave thoughts and
averse to meditation, is not attracted to
pulpit discussions. The words " duty,"
" immortality," " death," " responsibil-

ity," are unwelcome to popular ears.
Say what one will, the minister's themes
are necessarily serious. He speaks in
the name of religion. He represents
the soul. His speech drops down from
the higher atmosphere of spiritual
thought. He has nothing for sportive
hearers. It is not his business to tickle
idle ears. He is not a jester, a buf-
foon, a clown, or a merry-Andrew. He
is unwilling to make people laugh ;
he rarely induces them to smile. It is
his office to open the fountain of tears
in their hearts, to stir their consciences,
to awaken their souls, to rouse their
sympathies. He speaks of brotherhood,
charity, accountability ; the wisdom of
restraining passion, and curbing desire,
and keeping the higher life in view.
There are things that look unseemly in
the presence of the eternal law, and
such things he must condemn. There is
a mirthfulness, innocent — nay, positive-
ly wholesome — elsewhere, that sinks
into silence when the awful, invisible
Form comes out of the shadow. That
form the preacher never can forget. He
would be untrue to himself if he lost re-
membrance of it for a moment. What-
ever theme he deals with, the low mur-
mur of the everlasting flood is ever in
his ears, and resounds through his lan-
guage, imparting a deep solemnity to
his utterance. He may be tempted to
indulge his humor or wit, if he has any,
but he yields as to a temptation, regret-
fully, half remorsefully, fearing lest some-
thing may be taken from the edge of his
appeal. Even when his theme is neither
theological nor technically religious, he
is true to his calling as a minister of
righteousness. The liberal preacher, so
called, is no less austere than his Calvin-
istic neighbor ; rather more so, if any-
thing, as feeling the importance of cor-
recting a certain latitude of speculation
which his " orthodox " friend is not
aware of.

But if all this be true, — and true in
a great measure it may well be, — why

1884.]

Voices of Power.

173

is it, one may ask, that the pulpit has
not fallen more completely iuto disre-
pute ? Why is the institution support-
ed ? Why are preachers listened to ?
Why do crowds gather every Sunday to
hear what earnest, believing men have
to say ? For it is a fact that preaching
has not yet sunk into utter discredit.
The churches are not deserted. On the
contrary, I am inclined to think that,
all things being taken into account, more
people in proportion " go to meeting "
— go intelligently, earnestly, sympathet-
ically, expectantly — than ever went
before. My impression is that there is
more live mind in the churches to-day
than there ever was. Buildings are
larger, congregations are more numer-
ous, the word is listened to more eager-
ly. If an able man has anything to say
from the pulpit, an audience is ready
for him; and the more authoritatively
he speaks, the better they like it. The
ancient faithis alive. The old way of
presenting it is not obsolete. Skepticism
does not appear to have penetrated the
heart of the multitude. As the world
grows larger, the number increases of
those who frequent the sanctuary, as
well as of those who stay away.

To say nothing of the occasions which
come to all alike, — hours of sorrow, of
disappointment, of defeat, — that every-
body meets and must surmount ; of the
craving to hear a word of solace, en-
couragement, instruction, to enlarge the
horizon of experience, to obtain a wider
prospect of life ; to say nothing of death,
that awful, mysterious certainty, so uni-
versal in its sway, so uncertain in its
issues, or of conscience, whose voice is
heard in every breast, the themes of the
pulpit possess an inexhaustible fascina-
tion for the majority of mankind. The
preacher's cardinal topics are irresistibly
interesting. There are grave questions
which nobody can answer, yet which
everybody asks, — questions that the
preacher alone pretends to deal with,
that none but a thinker attempts to

grasp, but that force themselves on the
unthinking mind. To know what an-
swers have been given is a good deal ;
to be sure that there is no final answer is
something. The most light-hearted, even
frivolous people, at some moments in
their lives, are brought face to face with
problems so awful that only earnest
minds should confront them, and they,
for the most part, are consecrated pro-
fessionally to the task. The preacher
has been educated to consider such prob-
lems ; he spends his life in endeavors to
solve them ; he has arrived at a certain
degree of conviction ; he has won popu-
lar confidence by the devotedness of his
ministry and the elevation of his life.
He is usually noble, simple-hearted,
honest, true of intention, single of pur-
pose, disinterested, and sympathetic.
He lives in contemplation. He is an
idealist. If he is a man of traditions,
the traditions he holds by are humane ;
they embody the treasured wisdom of
the race. Those who resort to him are
pretty sure to get all that is known.
The purely sensational preacher is rare
in any community. There are not
many men in the pulpit, if there are
any, who study immediate effect more
than truth. There may, here and there,
be one man of remarkable humor, who
is tempted occasionally to present ideas
in a mirthful light ; but this is incidental
to his temperament, not radical in his
ministration. His aim is heavenward,
though he may frequently provoke a
smile. Theodore Parker used to say
that if he were to give expression to all
the funny thoughts that occurred to
him, his hall would resound with laugh-
ter. Fanciful images thronged his mind ;
yet nobody doubted Parker's earnest-
ness of purpose, or questioned the^ abso-
lute sincerity of his nature. Most peo-
ple imagined that he was somewhat un-
compromising, even grim. A prevailing
passion for truth is all that can be asked
for. Great genius, the gift of insight,
of divination, of prophecy, of eloquent

174

Voices of Power.

[February,

speech, are not to be expected. The
saintly disposition is given to few. But
the power of personal character is not
uncommon, simplicity of intention, pu-
rity of mind. Character is very dif-
ferent from genius, accomplishment, or
talent in particular directions. It is
the force of the unseen world flowing
through the soul. There is much in the
fact that the minister belongs to no
class of men ; that he is neither aristo-
crat nor democrat, rich nor poor, old nor
young ; that he is simply human ; that
he meets all men on the same terms ;
that all doors are open to him ; that
all domestic secrets are disclosed. The
family physician is the only person who
has anything like the same universality
of influence, anything approaching an
equal range of sympathy. No other
man in society pretends to it.

When to this is added the quality
of personality so generally felt in the
preacher, who takes into himself the
burden of so much experience, the im-
portance of the pulpit is not surpris-
ing. The pulpit should be a mount of
vision. A living soul utters oracles there.
One hears a voice, sees a form, gazes on
an expressive countenance. The lecturer
has a portion of the same advantage, but
he is not charged with so mysterious a
theme, nor does he touch people at so
many points. In fact, he does not reach
the same people year after year, as the
preacher does, and he never addresses
the spiritual mind. The audience brings
ears, seldom hearts, to the lyceum. It
comes in the mood of admiration, not
in the mood of worship. Mr. Emerson
made the platform an altar, drawing
down fire from heaven upon sticks of
wood ; but he was alone. The most
persuasive lecturer does well if now and
then he can ascend from low themes to
lofty contemplations. The personality
of the lecturer may be called magnetic,
in the absence of a better word. The
personality of the genuine preacher is
born of the spirit, and is largely made

up of the elements of hope, fear, love,
aspiration, devotion.

The truth is that faith in the super-
natural is not dead ; faith in the invisible
will never die. The ancient religious
instincts of men will change their mode
of expression, but they will retain their
energy. The scientific method does not
threaten them with extinction. The
democratic principle does not endanger
their authority, and the man who can
arouse them is sure of a hearing. Every
great epoch has been inaugurated by
the pulpit, has been heralded by the
preacher. The Hebrew ages were ;
the Christian age was. The Church of
Rome sent out its preaching orders to
revive a declining belief ; the Protes-
tant reform depended on the pulpit for
its extension. Luther's force was, in
great measure parasnetical ; so was Cal-
vin's. In England, France, Germany,
Italy, Switzerland, there was a line of
orators with their message from the Lord.
The Puritan era came in with preach-
ing. The modern pulpit is broader,
more elastic, more practical, less theo-
logical, less speculative, less doctrinal,
less severely logical, but its old spirit of
moral operation is preserved. It still
appeals to revelation, still falls back on
inspiration, still assumes the immediate
presence of Deity, — an immanent God,
perhaps, but a living God, — with all the
old reality and all the old vividness of
conception. The radical pulpit simply
transfers the divine influence to other
fields ; it never dreams of abolishing the
idea of it. Atheistical it cannot be ;
pantheistical it may be ; theistical, in
some form, it commonly is. ,

The conditions of a powerful pulpit
to-day are essentially the same as for-
merly : devotion, sincerity, open-minded-
ness, translucency of soul. The pulpit
must contain consecrated men, who live
for the highest thought, the noblest life,
the purest sympathies ; who are out of
the world, do not seek its prizes, do not
court its applause ; who are not secta-

1884.]

Voices of Power.

175

nans, not churchmen, not polemics, —
men who lay by their individuality,
their pride, their self-sufficiency ; who
are no hypocrites or pretenders; who
do not strut, vapor, put on airs of supe-
riority, or practice affectations of any
kind, but who stand fairly on the border
line, where humanity blends with divin-
ity, — men of glowing enthusiasm, of
invincible hopefulness, of perfect good-
will, friends and servants of mankind.
Such are not rare, and they are becom-
ing less uncommon with every genera-
tion. It will be generally allowed that
the great need in all communities and at
all times is of men of this stamp. The
culture of the moral nature is still the
chief concern. The prevalence of knowl-
edge renders compulsory a finer inter-
pretation of nature, history, experience.
We depend on the pulpit to supply this
perennial demand. We depend on the
pulpit to furnish the conditions of its
maintenance. The habit of fault-find-
ing because it does not satisfy them is
an evidence of the expectation that ex-
ists yet in the world of thinkers. That
people are discontented, that they com-
plain, that they stay away from church,
may be a good sign. The pulpit should
be based on the attribute of intellectual
power. The occupant of it should be
held to a high standard. It is our duty
to insist that the Sunday shall not be
wasted, given up to quacks, drivelers,
buffoons. My quarrel with the commu-
nity is that it is too acquiescent ; criti-
cises too little ; is too easily satisfied ;
accepts mediocrity of learning, talent,
devotion ; abuses too mildly ; ridicules
too gently. The people who say the
hardest things are, unfortunately, people
who do not begin with aspiration. Re-
ligious men are the first to detect impos-
ture. The pulpit can be trusted to purge
itself from intruders. A distinguished
preacher once said, " When I wish to
throw stones at the church windows, I
shall go outside." It was well remarked,
for to throw stones is a hostile and rath-

er a lawless proceeding. It is true, all
the same, that the real improvement of
the pulpit comes from the inside, from
the growth of serious opinion among
earnest men, who see what the age and
the soul require. The correspondence
between John Ruskin and certain cler-
gymen of the Church of England, pub-
lished two or three years ago, throws
much light on the prevailing tendency
towards a more spiritual understanding
of the pulpit's office ; the short preface
by Dr. Matteson displaying admirably
the temper of the leading ecclesiastics.
As, in the case of a battle, the hard
fighting is done by the ordinary soldiery,
whose disciplined valor carries the day,
so, in this warfare of religion, the ordi-
nary labor is performed by obscure men,
whose names are never spoken, and
whose consecrated lives attest their fidel-
ity to the highest interests of man. The
officers bear the brunt of the criticism,
but they do not fill the ranks.

The best and the worst has been said
about the pulpit, yet it is not probable
that any agency will ever take its place.
Its very imperfections — and in the na-
ture of things it cannot be all it aims to
become — act as a constant spur to its
improvement. Other ministrations, hon-
orable and capable as they may be, do
not propose to themselves the same ob-
jects, of course cannot produce the same
results. The newspaper press, for in-
stance, reaches a greater number of peo-
ple, serves a greater number of wants,
touches vastly more points of interest,
deals with more immediate concerns,
strives after a more comprehensive en-
lightenment ; but its whole design is dif-
ferent. It has another ideal, which it
endeavors to reach, but which in propor-
tion as it is attained is seen to be essen-
tially distinct from that of the preacher.
The time has gone by when praise of
the newspaper press is called for, or is
timely. Blame of it is out of place. An
attempt to understand the secret of its
power is alone wise. That its domain is

176

Voices of Power.

[February,

immense, its sway almost boundless, its
stride prodigious, must be evident to all
who have eyes to see. In 1776, but lit-
tle more than a hundred years ago, there
were thirty -seven papers of all grades in
the United States. Of these, nine were
in Pennsylvania, seven in Massachu-
setts, four in New York. All of them,
with a single exception, were weeklies,
and this one was a semi-weekly. There
was no daily paper in the country.
Five years ago there were eight thou-
sand papers of all orders, of which New
York had the largest number, Penn-
sylvania the next in quantity, while
Massachusetts ranked seventh or eighth.
Now the dailies are all but numberless.
A century since, there was a paper for
one in thirty thousand people. Five
years since, there was one for five thou-
sand people. In 1876, there were in
this country eight thousand one hundred
and twenty-nine periodicals of every
rank, with a total circulation of some-
thing over a billion. The population of
the country was, at the same time, a
little over thirty-eight million. There
certainly is room enough for the growth
of the press. It is not likely soon to
overpass the pulpit. We sometimes
hear people talk as if there were dan-
ger of an inundation from newspapers ;
but can any such event be anticipated ?
There is more ground for the opinion
that we have not newspapers enough for
the needs of the people. Less than fif-
teen years ago, there may have been
started, on an average, six new papers a
day, yet the actual increase in five years
previous to 1876 was only about two
thousand. The others had died, or been
consolidated, or shrunk from view. The
large controlling papers, on which the
smaller papers feed, are very few. The
metropolitan press is comparatively
small. Most papers owe a great deal to
the scissors, to the art of making extracts
from the great journals ; therefore, un-
less the towns are to become cities, and
small journals great ones, — an event at

present beyond conjecture, — the power
of the newspaper press must have its
numerical limitation.

The primary object of the newspaper
is to convey enlightenment to the mul-
titude. In the beginning it professed
simply to supply intelligence regarding
current incidents of importance. When
the world was small the paper was small.
When intercourse was difficult and in-
frequent, papers were of necessity local
in their scope, limited in their circula-
tion, restricted in their horizon. The
Wide, Wide World was a child's look
over a fence. With the expansion of
the universe, new scenes were brought
to view ; and with increasing facilities
of communication, fresh curiosity was
awakened. The demand for informa-
tion extended. Now the great news-
paper gets news from every part of the
planet. In every chief centre, in every
great city, there must be correspondents,
charged with the duty of reporting deeds
and transactions. If an event of public
interest occurs in Egypt, India, Rome,
Constantinople, Mexico, or wherever
else, special commissioners are sent out,
keen observers, trained writers, careful
chroniclers of history, to transmit in-
telligence in regard to everything that
passes beneath the eye. The cost of all
this is something fabulous. The amount
of energy, of enterprise, of disciplined
skill, required is fairly beyond computa-
tion. The brain-work of the editor in
chief — of the subordinates, too, for that
matter — must be prodigious, and it is
unceasing.

Then the external facts must be ex-
plained, accounted for, and interpreted.
Their meaning is to be disclosed, their
tendency indicated, their consequence
foreshadowed. Hence the prominence
of the editorial column, the necessity
of comment by experienced minds who
have made the subjects a study. The
best statisticians, critics, historians, finan-
ciers, scholars, must be employed to re-
duce to reason the crude material of

1884.]

Voices of Power.

177

.phenomena. This addition is of com-
paratively recent origin. Sixty years
ago there were no editorial contribu-
tions. It is an acute Bostonian, as
high-minded as he was sagacious, who
has the credit of this innovation. He
was himself a singularly able man, of
great penetration and enlightened pub-
lic spirit ; but he secured the service of
the most competent men in Massachu-
setts, for his purpose. His editorials
acquired fame all over the country ;
they were copied in other papers, and
laid the foundation of the system that
has become habitual as well as adequate
and conscientious.

Conscientious, it is repeated. For
behind every fact lies a moral no less
than an intellectual cause. The ante-
cedents are often exceedingly subtle.
Phenomena are subject to law ; they im-
plicate conscience ; they are connect-
ed with the inner history of mankind.
These relations must be indicated : hence
the press preaches. The editor is, in
a certain sense, a preacher ; he must
tell about the right and wrong of move-
ments. There is an ethics of the press.
To meet this requirement, men exercised
in the knowledge of moral questions are
employed. Many clergymen write for
the papers. Pulpits are subsidized. Of
course, the moralizing is more or less
conventional. It appeals to the general
conscience. /It rarely soars above its
occasion, or leaves the beaten track of
conviction. The paper assumes the av-
erage moral sentiment of the communi-
ty, — the highest average sentiment, cer-
tainly, — and is compelled to be, in sub-
stance, commonplace. It cannot diverge
far from accepted principle, for by so
doing it would be unfaithful to its lead-
ing purpose, which is to enlighten the
minds of its contemporaries, not directly
to elevate their consciences. It takes
existing laws of duty for granted, fol-
lows the road of tradition, and, however
fresh and forcible it may be in expres-
sion, abides by conceded examples. Now

and then an editor ventures on original
theses, indulges in speculative lucubra-
tions, or propounds ethical theories be-
yond his calling. But this is felt to be
out of his province, and is set down to
the account of some private eccentricity.
The task of uplifting the souls of men
is committed to other hands, and if en-
trusted to him alone would hardly be
fulfilled. To him belongs the office of
the interpreter, not that of the prophet.
Unquestionably, his influence may be
great in extending the sphere of the pul-
pit, in holding the preacher to the level
of his vocation, in distributing moral
forces, but his power to originate them
is small.

This is the most important limitation
of the press, and herein it differs from
the pulpit, which holds its occupant to
the highest mark of ideal aspiration.
The more completely he loses himself
in heavenly contemplations, the better
men are satisfied. The limitations in
question may be explained by the fact
that the newspaper press is a great busi-
ness, and must obey the rules of busi-
ness. Its expenses are enormous. The
salaries, rents, costs of correspondence,
of editorial writing, of news agencies,
reporters, and the rest are incessant as
they are absorbing of money. It re-
quires a large outlay to start a daily
paper, and to maintain it when started.
And this must be made good, and more
than made good ; otherwise the result is
failure. Here and there, to be sure, a
paper is begun and continued for a time,
longer or shorter, in some particular in-
terest that commands the support of a
special individual or company, but this
does not count. The press, as a rule,
is a venture, conducted on the principle
of every pecuniary investment. It of-
fers to the capitalist a fair return for
the money he has put into the shares,
and if no such return is forthcoming, the
investment is not a good one. There
are papers that represent more than a
million of dollars. If this sum is de-

178

Voices of Power.

[February,

rived from subscriptions, as it seldom or
never is, the public taste must be pri-
marily consulted. If it is derived from
advertisements, the business community
must be accommodated. The advertise-
ments depend on the circulation ; the
circulation results from the popular ap-
proval. Thus, at last, the public sen-
timent is made the test of excellence.
It is impossible to see how this dilemma
can be escaped. There may be papers
that live for a while without advertis-
ing, — sectarian organs, Sunday-school
journals, instituted for denominational
purposes, — but they are small and in-
significant. And these seek advertise-
ments, though not often with success,
inasmuch as their constituency is not
large, and is formed of people who are
already attached to the cause advocated.
Here is an unavoidable peril, not mere-
ly financial, but moral ; for the public
mind nowhere is remarkably high-toned.
Remunerative advertisements must be
invited ; must be, if possible, secured.
How far policy may be stretched to meet
the exigency will rest on the conscience
of the editor or editors. At all events,
policy must be invoked. Most papers
advertise their circulation, of course with
a motive, which appears on the face of
the proceeding. Deference to a sub-
scription list is sometimes increased by
this means. A falling off of circulation
will be injurious. The management may
regret this necessity of pleasing a fickle
public, may rebel against it, may suggest,
teach, remonstrate, inculcate, enjoin ; but
can circumstances be controlled ? Even
when the multitude becomes infatuated,
possessed, maddened by some strange
prejudice, some unwarrantable persua-
sion, must not the conductors of the pa-
per be careful how they run counter to
the tide ? No paper that loves its own
existence can afford to defy the world.
No paper dares be so independent that
it will put itself in opposition to all
opinion. It is dependent on its very
independence. If its patrons maintain

it, all is well. But its patrons must
maintain it. If the editor sets at naught
their judgment, he as certainly drives
his vessel on a rock as does the head of
an ordinary enterprise.

Here is the distinction between an
ideal and a practical profession. The
ideal profession stands upon principle ;
the practical profession stands upon pol-
icy. Every calling, as soon as it leaves
principle for policy, incurs the danger of
moral depreciation. The pulpit does so
even more fatally than the press, be-
cause its aims are higher. Under the
old system of ecclesiastical supremacy,
the preacher was upheld by the church.
The community was directed by the
priesthood. The power of spiritual au-
thority was universally acknowledged.
The minister was therefore independent
of social influence. He was strong in
the support of his superiors, who silent-
ly backed his word. Men might like
what he said, or they might dissent from
it ; they were compelled to listen, be-
cause the speaker was countenanced by
celestial inspiration. In the days of
Catholic supremacy, just before the Ref-
ormation, a class of preachers was sent
out to revive the drooping faith of the
believers. Their moral audacity was
amazing. They went everywhere with
their encouragement and rebuke. They
stood before monarchs, princes, gentle-
men, ladies. The Pope himself came
under their censure, for greater than any
earthly dominion was the deamless spirit
he represented. In the early days of
Protestant rule, the voice of the Holy
Ghost in the soul was louder than any
human clamor. The period of Puritan
energy was also the period of implicit
confidence in the monitions of the super-
terrestrial nature. In these days of nat-
uralism, under the democratic system,
the prevailing faith in a revealed will
gives the pulpit courage. The wish of
the majority sometimes overbears the
speech of the timid man. He must con-
sult the press before he utters his con-

1884.]

Voices of Power.

179

victioa on any matter of divided senti-
ment. We have all known instances
where conscience clashed against expe-
diency, where the multitude rose up and
overturned the authority of the pulpit,
and the minister was obliged to depart
from his place. The pew rents dwindled,
and a new administration was thought
more likely to " edify." This event fre-
quently happened in the years that pre-
ceded the civil war ; but a purely spir-
itual exigency may arise which brings
the common sense of the hearers into
collision with the soul of the prophet,
and then the consequence is equally dis-
astrous. The preacher who regards his
calling as a business, as the novelist has
often described him, is lost. He preaches
what the congregation likes to hear.
He prophesies smooth things, because
such only are attractive, such only draw
the people who pay. Hence devices
for gaining audiences ; sensational ser-
mons ; loud declamations ; the facility
with which men persuade themselves
that they believe what they have dis-
carded ; the habit of thinking one thing
in the study, and saying another on Sun-
day. The office thus becomes a bargain-
ing shop, and it lapses at once into spir-
itual degeneracy.

This danger the press is exposed to
continually and inevitably. How far
it eludes the danger it is not for me to
say. The editorial conscience can alone
answer that question. A curious con-
comitant, of this deference to polite
opinion is the tone of infallibility the
press assumes. It is obliged to speak
with authority in order to keep the con-
fidence of its supporters. It must abide
by its assertion ; otherwise it weakens
its grasp on its adherents. Consistency
is its jewel, even if it be consistency in
misjudgment and mistake. To retract
is perilous ; to correct an error is to con-
fess it ; to give prominence to a recanta-
tion is humbling. To forgive is always
difficult ; to ask forgiveness requires al-
most supernatural virtue. None but no-

ble minds can do that. He who grants
looks down on a suppliant ; he who asks
looks up to a judge. He who admits
no judge more exalted than personal in-
clination or popular approval will not
often take the attitude of humiliation.
It is done sometimes, not often, still less
habitually ; for it is a hard thing for a
paper with a hundred thousand readers
who pin their faith to its columns to
take back its own asseveration. Fidel-
ity to its main purpose forbids its mak-
ing concessions which might impair its
force.

Another source of limitation in the
newspaper press is the necessity of pay-
ing attention to local politics. This is
not a fault, nor even a misfortune. It
may, indeed, imply a most excellent
quality ; for in a democratic country
politics ought to be a leading concern
of the people, and the task of inform-
ing the general mind about it, of scruti-
nizing candidates, testing questions, and
estimating issues, is of primary impor-
tance. Great discussions are continual-
ly agitated. The merits as well as the
demerits of causes are exhibited, the
proportions of phenomena are ascer-
tained, and in the course of debate ab-
solute principles are brought into view.
All this is admirable as bearing on the
higher education of the community at
large. Every considerable paper is,
fortunately, obliged to have political
sympathies ; every leading paper must
undertake political advocacy. The sym-
pathies grow from year to year more
generous ; the advocacy becomes from
year to year most just and noble. That
the public mind is enlightened by the
uninterrupted agitation, the general con-
science purified, the standard of equi-
ty raised, the level of truth elevated, is
heartily conceded ; nay, is gratefully ac-
knowledged. That this is in great meas-
ure due to the efforts of journalists can-
not be doubted. At the same time, it
would be miraculous if the habit of con-
fining attention to the details of party

180

Voices of Power.

[February,

management did not weaken the facul-
ty of ideal contemplation, and render
difficult, to say the least, the duty of con-
sidering everlasting ideas. This task de-
volves on other shoulders, not of neces-
sity more willing or able, but suited to
another kind of burden.

The press is a great power for dis-
tributing intelligence of all kinds. It is
a vast popular educator, in science, the
useful arts, taste for literature, music,
painting, sculpture, in all that belongs
to human existence in this world. A
critic, a keen observer, a man of singu-
lar intelligence, himself a distinguished
preacher, once said to me that he never
read a paper that he did not come across
something he wished to cut out and pre-
serve ; and he was prevented from do-
ing so only by the number of such par-
agraphs. This too is the experience of
other men, as I can bear cheerful testi-
mony. This power of the press is in-
creasing continually, and is becoming
more and more beneficent. To every
one who can look back half a century,
it must be evident that in quality as
well as in quantity the improvement is
immense. That there is room for more
will be admitted by none so eagerly as
by editors themselves, who are tireless
in their endeavors to raise their calling
to the rank they perceive it should hold.
The real friend of his kind must rejoice
in the signs of such advance, for they
prove that one of the chief agents of
civilization is about its work.

The mission of the stage is no less
lofty and peculiar than that of the pulpit
or the press. Though its office is prima-
rily to entertain, it aims at doing this in
a way more refined and elegant as time
goes on, thus promoting the aesthetic ed-
ucation of society. The epoch of Pu-
ritan protest against the theatre is gone
by. Amusement is no longer associated
with vice. The sources of turpitude
have been, once and for all, removed
from buildings devoted to dramatic art.
Clergymen need no longer defend the

stage. The best actors move freely in
the choicest circles. Even orthodox
preachers show, by their attendance at
places of theatrical entertainment in for-
eign cities, that their objections are not
founded on principle, but rather on local
convenience, and that they would gladly
introduce a more generous form of cul-
ture at home. The deeper religious ob-
jection, that the actor's profession is es-
sentially unreal, illusory, artificial, false,
hypocritical, perhaps, inasmuch as he
must pretend to be somebody else ; must
simulate a kindness, a state, a virtue, not
his own ; must wear borrowed clothes,
and put on a mask, and seem to be no-
ble when he is at heart base, is grad-
ually disappearing under finer influences,
at the common demand for higher con-
ception, for more consummate skill, for
nicer delineation of character, for a del-
icate quality of dress and decoration
which a generation ago were unknown.
Coarseness is scarcely tolerated in our
days ; rudeness is severely criticised.
The arts of expression are cultivated
because they are insisted on.

The passion for the drama, it is on
all sides confessed, has its seat in hu-
man nature. The church admitted this
long ago, in the miracle plays, by which
received doctrines were commended to
the uneducated classes. The church
must admit it again in the new shape
prescribed by the modern spirit, wel-
coming its gay coadjutor to a share in
the task of educating society. ' For the
actors themselves — the foremost of
them — are doing what they can to ren-
der their profession acceptable to the
worthiest men and women. They work
hard ; they study incessantly ; they con-
sult the best standards of feeling. If
they are ingenious in producing meretri-
cious effects by the use of paint, cos-
metic, and costume, it is simply because
the public inclination runs in that direc-
tion, not because they themselves love
ornament or the resort to tricks. As
fast as they are permitted they will ele-

1884.]

Voices of Power.

181

vate the standard of taste. Their busi-
ness is to make moral sentiment attract-
ive ; not to- promulgate absolute ethics,
not to diffuse information, but to make
such morality as exists appreciated, and
to recommend it by all the means at their
command. The appetite for high trag-
edy is less and less importunate. Bold,
melodramatic effects are seldom pro-
duced. Violent ethical contrasts are
avoided. Strong painting of moral pe-
culiarities is no longer in vogue. The
finer shadings of life are indicated, — a
sign of healthy realism in thought and
emotion. The desire for comedy is
chastened by a very considerable refine-
ment in the character of comedy itself,
which is taken out of the region of buf-
foonery and burlesque, and carried up
into the domain of wholesome merri-
ment.

It is beginning to be suspected, in
fact, that the actor, and not society, is
the principal victim of the profession.
He is the sufferer from insincere condi-
tions, if there is any. He must labor
at night, when other people enjoy them-
selves ; and his labor is especially ex-
hausting to the nervous energy, so that
he must sleep through the sunniest hours
of the day. He is cut off seriously from
social intercourse, even in the period of
his fame ; and until his fame is acquired
he has no chance to go into the world.
The chief interests of mankind — busi-
ness and politics — have but little part
in his life. The movements of social re-
form pass him by. He dwells habitual-
ly in a world of his own, a world apart
from his fellow creatures. He belongs
to a caste. His notions of behavior are
suggested by his environment. His ideas
of virtue are apt to be characterized by
the peculiarities of a remote and fanciful
ideal. The moral persuasions of a dis-
tinct order are visibly impressed on his
mind. Both his virtues and his vices
are incident to a calling that shuts him
up in a species of isolation from his
kind. His temptations are his own;

his victories, too, are his own. Other
men have stronger supports, and deserve
sterner judgment for errors. In my
own experience, both the men and the
women merit more honor than is meted
out to them.

There have been times when the
stage was made to minister directly to
the political, social, and moral guidance
of mankind ; when it was wielded as
a force by kings and courts ; when its
writers regarded it as the object of
their lives to satirize folly in the inter-
est of wisdom. In a word, the play-
wright was a prophet. But, as a rule,
the office of the actor is to entertain.
This is no mean function. A sorely
tasked clergyman of Boston used to fre-
quent, when he visited New York, a cer-
tain theatre, well known then, where he
was sure to be shaken out of his cares
by side - splitting laughter, and sent
home a new man. The actor, as it be-
fell, was no model of private virtue, but
he performed this vast service for his
fellow men. Better offices are rendered
now, but they are the same in kind. To
diminish in some degree the pressure of
toil is a great blessing. Unhappily, they
who least need to have the pressure
lightened, the leisurely, pleasure-seeking
classes, are the chief supporters of the
theatre. But the most cultivated peo-
ple, the most responsible members of
the community, will become the patrons
of it in proportion as its office is better
appreciated. Still, the multitude re-
quire, more than the few, this solace of
entertainment, for they have not so many
resources in their homes and their daily
life. They are the people who need to
be amused. They bear the heaviest
burdens of existence. The rich or edu-
cated classes can do without amusement,
on ordinary occasions, or can obtain it
through other channels. During the
days of terror in Paris that marked the
French Revolution, in 1793, between
twenty and thirty theatres gathered
crowds every evening, the actors and

182

Voices of Power.

[February,

actresses exerting themselves to keep
quiet the agonized spirits of the metrop-
olis. In the darkest hours of our civil
war, when the ministers were sustain-
ing drooping hearts by holding before
them the precepts of eternal justice ;
when the daily papers published bulle-
tins of dismay, and tried to put the most
cheerful interpretation on disaster, the
theatres of New York were thronged as
they never had been before by men and
women who wished to escape from pain-
ful thoughts. To some the mirthfulness
appeared unseemly, but they who saw
deeper beheld with thankfulness this
provision for relieving the tension of an
overcharged nervous system. Laughter
follows close on tears.

This point cannot be too strongly
stated. It would be a real misfortune
were the actor to undertake the duty of
the preacher ; for then he would not car-
ry the multitude with him, and the pre-
sentation of moral ideas would be sen-
timental, if not extravagant. For the
actor to play the reformer would be a
serious mistake, because he would inevi-
tably be betrayed into fustian or silly
pedantry. He would diegust many, and
amuse none. All attempts to " purify
the stage " by making it an adjunct of
religion disclose a singular ignorance
of the true mission of both. A play
written for philosophers would not in-
terest merchants, manufacturers, or arti-
sans. Acting that might please saints
could not be acceptable to sinners, as
the majority of men are. The stage
must represent the society it entertains.
The player must be popular. Society,
indeed, would be the gainer if actors
and actresses would study to accommo-
date themselves better than they appear
to do to the most refined moral sense
of the community ; if they would ac-
cept in good faith their duty as educa-
tors of their generation. The custom-
ary dependence on the hair-dresser, the
milliner, the dealer in cosmetics, the

costumer, is not encouraging to moral
excellence. The adaptation of French
plays, with their inevitable meretricious-
ness, to say nothing of their daintily
concealed lubricity, is not a sign of ele-
vated taste. But this may be a passing
fashion. The increasing popularity of
American plays argues a nobler future,
a more complete adaptation to the ideas
of a young, aspiring people.

The actor is an artist. He belongs
to the great brotherhood of the masters
of perfect form, and he must not con-
found electric lights with beauty, or
make paint a substitute for principles.
The introduction of personal charms as
a guarantee of histrionic talent, or a
passport to histrionic success, as if it
were enough to be beautiful, is fatal to
lofty attainment, either in morality or in
art, and should be frowned at instead of
being indulged, as it is by a too gener-
ous profession.

That the stage has a very dignified
career before it cannot be doubted ; that
it will rise above its difficulties must not
be questioned ; that it holds in its pos-
session a mighty power for good will be
gladly believed by enlightened minds.
Its function is intellectual, and therefore
boundless in possibility. There is sim-
ply no end to its capabilities. Though
its office is to entertain, it is also its
office to cultivate, to refine, to elevate,
quite as distinctly as the work of the
press is to impart a complete information,
or as the task of the pulpit is to inspire
the human soul. These are the three
sources of power. All other agencies
are but variations on the themes they
propose. As time goes on, the peculiar
differences in their design will probably
be disclosed more and more. They will
come to respect one another as fellow
workers, and to rejoice each in the oth-
er's success ; all jealousy and envy being
laid aside, as between real artists who
are endeavoring to promote the well
being of humankind.

0. B. Frothingham.

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

183

A ROMAN SINGER.

XV.

As it often happens that, in affairs of
importance, the minor events which lead
to the ultimate result see.m to occur rap-
idly, and almost to stumble over each
other in their haste, it came to pass that
on the very evening after I had got
Nino's letter I was sent for by the con-
tessina.

When the man came to call me, I
was sitting in my room, from force of
habit, though the long delay had made
the possibility of the meeting seem shad-
owy. I was hoping that Nino might
arrive in time to go in my place, for I
knew that he would not be many hours
behind his letter. He would assuredly
travel as fast as he could, and if he had
understood my directions he was not
likely to go astray. But in spite of my
hopes the summons came too soon, and
I was obliged to go myself.

Picture to yourselves how I looked
and how I felt : a sober old professor,
as I am, stealing out in the night, all
wrapped in a cloak as dark and shabby
as any conspirator's ; armed with a good
knife in case of accidents ; with beating
heart, and doubting whether I could use
my weapon if needful ; and guided to
the place of tryst by the confidential ser-
vant of a beautiful and unhappy maiden.
I have often laughed since then at the
figure I must have cut, but I did not
laugh at the time. It was a very seri-
ous affair.

We skirted the base of the huge rock
on which the castle is built, and reached
the small, low door without meeting
any one. It was a moonlit night, — the
Paschal moon was nearly at the full, —
and the whiteness made each separate
iron rivet in the door stand out distinct,
thrown into relief by its own small shad-
ow on the seamed oak. My guide pro-

duced a ponderous key, which screamed
hoarsely in the lock under the pressure
of his two hands, as he made it turn
in the rusty wards. The noise fright-
ened me, but the man laughed, and said
they could not hear where they sat, far
up in the vaulted chamber, telling long
stories over their wine. We entered,
and I had to mount a little way up the
dark steps to give him room to close
the door behind us, by which we were
left in total darkness. I confess I was
very nervous and frightened until he
lighted a taper which he had brought
and made enough light to show the way.
The stairs were winding and steep, but
perfectly dry, and when he had passed
me I followed him, feeling that at all
events the door behind was closed, and
there was some one between me and any
danger ahead.

The man paused in front of me, and
when I had rounded the corner of the
winding steps I saw that a brighter light
than ours shone from a small doorway
opening directly upon the stair. In an-
other moment I was in the presence of
Hedwig von Lira. The man retired,
and left us.

She stood, dressed in black, against the
rough stone ; the strong light of a gor-
geous gilt lamp that was placed on the
floor streamed upward on her white face.
Her eyes caught the brightness, and
seemed to burn like deep, dark gems,
though they appeared so blue in the day.
She looked like a person tortured past
endurance, so that the pain of the soul
has taken shape, and the agony of the
heart has assumed substance. Tears
shed had hollowed the marble cheeks,
and the stronger suffering that cannot
weep had chiseled out great shadows
beneath her brows. Her thin clasped
hands seemed wringing each other into
strange shapes of woe ; and though she

184

A Roman Singer.

[February,

stood erect as a slender pillar against the
black rock, it was rather from the cour-
age of despair than because she was
straight and tall by her own nature.

I bent low before her, awed by the
extremity of suffering I saw.

" Are you Signer Grandi ? " she asked,
in a low and trembling voice.

" Most humbly at your service, Sig-
nora Contessina," I answered. She put
out her hand to me, and then drew it
back quickly, with a timid, nervous look
as I moved to take it.

" I never saw you," she said, " but I
feel as though you must be a friend " —
She paused.

" Indeed, signorina, I am here for
that reason," said I, trying to speak
stoutly, and so to inspire her with some
courage. " Tell me how I can best
serve you ; and though I am not young
and strong like Nino Cardegna, my boy,
I am not so old but that I can do what-
soever you command."

" Then, in God's name, save me from
this" — But again the sentence died
upon her lips, and she glanced anxiously
at the door. I reflected that if any one
came we should be caught like mice in
a trap, and I made as though I would
look out upon the stairs. But she
stopped me.

" I am foolishly frightened," she said.
" That man is faithful, and will keep
watch." I thought it time to discover
her wishes.

" Signorina," said I, " you ask me to
save you. You do not say from what.
I can at least tell you that Nino Car-
degna will be here in a day or two " —
At this sudden news she gave a little
cry, and the blood rushed to her cheeks,
in strange contrast with their deathly
whiteness. She seemed on the point of
speaking, but checked herself, and her
eyes, that had looked me through and
through a moment before, drooped mod-
estly under my glance.

" Is it possible ? " she said at last, in
a changed voice. " Yes, if he comes, I

think the Signor Cardegna will help
me."

" Madam," I said, very courteously,
for I guessed her embarrassment, " I
can assure you that my boy is ready to
give you his life in return for the kind-
ness he received at your hands in Rome."
She looked up, smiling through her
tears, for the sudden happiness had
moistened the drooping lids.

" You are very kind, Signor Grandi.
Signor Cardegna is, I believe, a good
friend of mine. You say he will be
here ? "

" I received a letter from him to-day,
dated in Rome, in which he tells me that
he will start immediately. He may be
here to-morrow morning," I answered.
Hedwig had regained her composure,
perhaps because she was reassured by
my manner of speaking about Nino. I,
however, was anxious to hear from her
own lips some confirmation of my sus-
picions concerning the baron. " I have
no doubt," I continued, presently, " that,
with your consent, my boy will be able
to deliver you from this prison " — I
used the word at a venture. Had Hed-
wig suffered less, and been less cruelly
tormented, she would have rebuked me
for the expression. But I recalled her
to her position, and her self-control gave
way at once.

" Oh, you are right to call it a prison ! "
she cried. " It is as much a prison as
this chamber hewed out of the rock,
where so many a wretch has languished
hopelessly ; a prison from which I am
daily taken out into the sweet sun, to
breathe and be kept alive, and to taste
how joyful a thing liberty must be !
And every day I am brought back, and
told that I may be free if I will consent.
Consent ! God of mercy ! " she moaned,
in a sudden tempest of passionate de-
spair. " Consent ever to belong, body
— and soul — to be touched, polluted,
desecrated, by that inhuman monster ;
sold to him, to a creature without pity,
whose heart is a toad, a venomous creep-

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

185

ing thing, — sold to him for this life, and
to the vengeance of God hereafter ; bar-
tered, traded, and told that I am so vile
and lost that the very price 1 am offered
is an honor to me, being so much more
than my value." She came toward me
as she spoke, and the passionate, unshed
tears that were in her seemed to choke
her, so that her voice was hoarse.

" And for what — for what ? " she
cried wildly, seizing my arm and look-
ing fiercely into my eyes. " For what,
I say ? Because I gave him a poor
rose ; because I let him see me once ; be-
cause I loved his sweet voice ; because
— because — I love him, and will love
him, and do love him, though I die ! "

The girl was in a frenzy of passion
and love and hate all together, and did
not count her words. The white heat
of her tormented soul blazed from her
pale face and illuminated every feature,
though she was turned from the light,
and she shook my arm in her grasp so
that it pained me. The marble was
burned in the fire, and must consume
itself to ashes. The white and calm
statue was become a pillar of flame in
the life-and-death struggle for love. 1
strove to speak, but could not, for fear
and wonder tied my tongue. And in-
deed she gave me short time to think.

" I tell you I love him, as he loves
me," she continued, her voice trembling
upon the rising cadence, " with all my
whole being. Tell him so. Tell him
he must save me, and that only he can :
that for his sake I am tortured, and
scorned, and disgraced, and sold ; my
body thrown to dogs, and worse than
dogs ; my soul given over to devils that
tempt me to kill and be free, — by my
own father, for his sake. Tell him that
these hands he kissed are wasted with
wringing small pains from each other,
but the greater pain drives them to do
worse. Tell him, good sir, — you are
kind and love him, but not as I do, —
tell him that this golden hair of m'aie
has streaks of white in these terrible

VOL. LIII. — NO. 316. 13

two months ; that these eyes he loved
are worn with weeping. Tell him " —

But her voice failed her, and she stag-
gered against the wall, hiding her face
in her hands. A trembling breath, a
struggle, a great wild ' sob : the long-
sealed, tears were free, and flowed fast
over her hands.

" Oh, no, no," she moaned, " you must
not tell him that." Then choking down
her agony she turned to me : " You
will not — you cannot tell him of this ?
I am weak, ill, but I will bear every-
thing for — for him." The great ef-
fort exhausted her, and I think that if
I had not caught her she would have
fallen, and she would have hurt herself
very much on the stone floor. But she
is young, and I am not very strong, and
could not have held her up. So I knelt,
letting her weight come on my shoulder.

The fair head rested pathetically
against my old coat, and I tried to wipe
away her tears with her long, golden
hair; for I had not any handkerchief.
But very soon I could not see to do it.
I was crying myself, for the pity of it
all, and my tears trickled down and fell
on her thin hands. And so I kneeled,
and she half lay and half sat upon the
floor, with her head resting on my shoul-
der. I was glad then to be old, for I
felt that I had a right to comfort her.

Presently she looked up into my face,
and saw that I was weeping. She did
not speak, but found her little lace hand-
kerchief, and pressed it to my eyes, —
first to one, and then to the other ; and
the action brought a faint maidenly flush
to her cheeks through all her own sor-
row. A daughter could not have done it
more kindly.

" My child," I said at last, " be sure
that your secret is safe with me. But
there is one coming with whom it will
be safer."

" You are so good," she said, and her
head sank once more, and nestled against
my breast, so that I could just see the
bright tresses through my gray beard.

186

A Roman Singer.

[February,

But in a moment she looked up again,
and made as though she would rise ; and
then I helped her, and we both stood on
our feet.

Poor, beautiful, tormented Hedwig !
I can remember it, and call up the
whole picture to my mind. She still
leaned on my arm, and looked up to me,
her loosened hair all falling back upon
her shoulders ; and the wonderful lines
of her delicate face seemed made ethe-
real and angelic by her sufferings.

" My dear," I said at last, smooth-
ing her golden hair with my hand, as
I thought her mother would do, if she
had a mother, — " my dear, your inter-
view with my boy may be a short one,
and you may not have an opportunity
to meet at all for days. If it does not
pain you too much, will you tell me
just what your troubles are, here ? I
can then tell him, so that you can save
the time when you are together." She
gazed into my eyes for some seconds, as
though to prove me, whether I were a
true man.

" I think you are right," she an-
swered, taking courage. " I will tell you
in two words. My father treats me as
though I had committed some unpardon-
able crime, which I do not at all under-
stand. He says my reputation is ruined.
Surely, that is not true ? " She asked
the question so innocently and simply
that I smiled.

" No, my dear, it is not true," I re-
plied.

" I am sure I cannot understand it,"
she continued ; " but he says so, and
insists that my only course is to accept
what he calls the advantageous offer
which has suddenly presented itself.
He insists very roughly." She shud-
dered slightly. " He gives me no peace.
It appears that this creature wrote to
ask my father for my hand, when we
left Rome, two months ago. The letter
was forwarded, and my father began at
once to tell me that I must make up my
mind to the marriage. At first I used

to be very angry ; but seeing we Were
alone, I finally determined to seem in-
different, and not to answer him when
he talked about it. Then he thought my
spirit was broken, and he sent for Baron
Benoni, who arrived a fortnight ago.
Do you know him, Signer Grandi ? You
came to see him, so I suppose you do."
The same look of hatred and loathing
came to her face that I had noticed when
Benoni and I met her in the hall.

" Yes, I know him. He is a traitor,
a villain," I said earnestly.

" Yes, and more than that. But he
is a great banker in Russia " —

" A banker ? " I asked, in some as-
tonishment.

" Did you not know it ? Yes ; he
is very rich, and has a great firm, if that
is the name for it. But he wanders in-
cessantly, and his partners take care of
his affairs. My father says that I shall

•/ */

marry him, or end my days here."

" Unless you end his for him ! " I
cried indignantly.

" Hush ! " said she, and trembled
violently. "He is my father, you
know," she added, with sudden earnest-
ness.

" But you cannot consent " — I be-
gan.

" Consent ! " she interrupted, with a
bitter laugh. " I will die rather than
consent."

"I mean, you cannot consent to be
shut up in this valley forever."

" If need be, I will," she said, in a low
voice.

" There is no need," I whispered.

" You do not know my father. He
is a man of iron," she answered sorrow-
fully.

" You do not know my boy. He is
a man of his word," I replied.

We were both silent, for we both
knew very well what our words meant.
From such a situation there could be
but one escape.

" I think you ought to go now," she
said at last. " If I were missed it would

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

187

all be over. But I am sorry to let you
go, you are so kind. How can you let
me know " — She stopped, with a
blush, and stooped to raise the lamp
from the floor.

" Can you not meet here to-morrow
night, when they are asleep?" I sug-
gested, knowing what her question would
have been.

" I will send the same man to you to-
morrow evening, and let you know what
is possible," she said. " And now I will
show you the way out of my house,"
she added, with the first faint shadow
of a smile. With the slight gilt lamp in
her hand, she went out of the little rock
chamber, listened a moment, and began
to descend the steps.

" But the key ? " I asked, following
her light footsteps with my heavier tread.

"It is in the door," she answered,
and went on.

When we readied the bottom, we
found it as she had said. The servant
had left the key on the inside, and with
some difficulty I turned the bolts. We
stood for one moment in the narrow
space, where the lowest step was set
close against the door. Her eyes flashed
strangely in the lamplight.

" How easy it would be ! " I said, un-
derstanding her glance. She nodded,
and pushed me gently out into the street ;
and I closed the door, and leaned against
it as she locked it.

" Good-night," she said from the other
side, and I put my mouth to the key-
hole. " Good-night. Courage ! " I an-
swered. I could hear her lightly mount-
ing the stone steps. It seemed wonder-
ful to me that she should not be afraid
to go back alone. But love makes peo-
ple brave.

The moon had risen higher during
the time I had been within, and I strolled
round the base of the rock, lighting a
cigar as I went. The terrible adven-
ture I had dreaded was now over, and I
felt myself again. In truth, it was a
curious thing to happen to a man of my

years and my habits ; but the things I
had heard had so much absorbed my at-
tention that, while the interview lasted,
I had forgotten the strange manner of
the meeting. I was horrified at the ex-
tent of the girl's misery, more felt than
understood from her brief description
and passionate outbreaks. There is no
mistaking the strength of a suffering
that wastes and consumes the mortal
part of us as wax melts at the fire.

And Benoni — the villain ! He had
written to ask Heclwig in marriage be-
fore he came to see me in Rome. There
was something fiendish in his almost
inviting me to see his triumph, and I
cursed him as I kicked the loose stones
in the road with my heavy shoes. So
he was a banker, as well as a musician
and a wanderer. Who would have
thought it ?

" One thing is clear," I said to myself,
as I went to bed : " unless something
is done immediately, that poor girl will
consume herself and die." And all that
night her poor thin face and staring
eyes were in my dreams ; so that I woke
up several times, thinking I was trying
to comfort her, and could not. But to-
ward dawn I felt sure that Nino was
coming, and that all would be well.

I was chatting with my old landlady
the next morning, and smoking to pass
the time, when there was suddenly a
commotion in the street. That is to
say, some one was arriving, and all the
little children turned out in a body to
run after the stranger, while the old
women came to their doors with their
knitting, and squinted under the bright
sunlight to see what was the matter.

It was Nino, of course — my own
boy, riding on a stout mule, with a coun-
tryman by his side upon another. He
was dressed in plain gray clothes, and
wore high boots. His great felt hat
drooped half across his face, and hid his
eyes from me ; but there was no mistak-
ing the stern, square jaw and the close,
even lips. I ran toward him, and called

188

A Roman Singer.

[February,

him by name. In a moment he was off
his beast, and we embraced tenderly.

" Have you seen her ? " were the h'rst
words he spoke. I nodded, and hurried
him into the house where I lived, fear-
ful lest some mischance should bring the
party from the castle riding by. He
sent his man with the mules to the inn,
and when we were at last alone together
he threw himself into a chair, and took
off his hat.

Nino too was changed in the two
months that had passed. He had trav-
eled far, had sung lustily, and had been
applauded to the skies ; and he had seen
the great world. But there was more
than all that in his face. There were
lines of care and of thought that well
became his masculiue features. There
was a something in his look that told of
a set purpose, and there was a light in
his dark eyes that spoke a world of warn-
ing to any one who might dare to thwart
him. But he seemed thinner, and his
cheeks were as white as the paper I
write on.

Some men are born masters, and never
once relax the authority they exercise
on those around them. Nino has always
commanded me, as he seems to command
everybody else, in the fewest words pos-
sible. But he is so true and honest
and brave that all who know him love
him ; and that is more than can be said
for most artists. As he sat in his chair,
hesitating what question to ask first, or
waiting for me to speak, I thought that
if Hedwig von Lira had searched the
whole world for a man able to deliver
her from her cruel father and from her
hated lover she could have chosen no
better champion than Nino Cardegna,
the singer. Of course you all say that
I am infatuated with the boy, and that I
helped him to do a reckless thing, sim-
ply because I was blinded by my fond-
ness. But I maintain, and shall ever
hold, that Nino did right in this matter,
and I am telling my story merely in or-
der that honest men may judge.

He sat by the window, and the sun
poured through the panes upon his curl-
ing hair, his traveling dress, and his dusty
boots. The woman of the house brought

in some wine and water ; but he only
sipped the water, and would not touch
the wine.

" You are a dear, kind father to me,"
he said, putting out his hand from where
he sat, " and before we talk I must tell
you how much I thank you." Simple
words, as they look on paper ; but an-
other man could not have said so much
in an hour, as his voice and look told
me.

XVI.

"Nino mio," I began, "I saw the
contessina last night. She is in a very
dramatic and desperate situation. But
she greets you, and looks to you to save
her from her troubles." Nino's face was
calm, but his voice trembled a little as
he answered : —

" Tell me quickly, please, what the
troubles are."

" Softly — I will tell you all about it.
You must know that your friend Benoni
is a traitor to you, and is here. Do not
look astonished. He has made up his
mind to marry the contessina, and she
says she will die rather than take him,
which is quite right of her." At the
latter piece of news, Nino sprang from
his chair.

" You do not seriously mean that her
father is trying to make her marry Be-
noni ? " he cried.

" It is infamous, my dear boy ; but it
is true."

" Infamous ! I should think you
could find a stronger word. How did
you learn this ? " I detailed the cir-
cumstances of our meeting on the pre-
vious night. While I talked, Nino lis-
tened with intense interest, and his face
changed its look from anger to pity, and
from pity to horror. When I had fin-
ished, he was silent.

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

189

" You can see for yourself," I said,
" that the case is urgent."

" I will take her away," said Nino, at
last. "It will be very unpleasant for
the count. He would have been wiser
to allow her to have her own way."

" Do nothing rash, Nino mio. Con-
sider a little what the consequences
would be if you were caught in the act
of violently carrying off the daughter of
a man as powerful as Von Lira."

" Bah ! You talk of his power as
though we lived under the Colonnesi
and the Orsini, instead of under a free
monarchy. If I am once married to
her, what have I to fear ? Do you think
the count would go. to law about his
daughter's reputation ? Or do you sup-
pose he would try to murder me ? "

" I would do both, in his place," I an-
swered. " But perhaps you are right,
and he will yield when he sees that he
is outwitted. Think again, and suppose
that the contessiua herself objects to
such a step."

" That is a different matter. She
shall do nothing save by her own free
will. You do not imagine I would try
to take her away unless she were will-
ing?" He sat down again beside me,
and affectionately laid one hand on my
shoulder.

" Women, Nino, are women," I re-
marked.

"Unless they are angels," he as-
sented.

" Keep the angels for Paradise, and
beware of taking- them into considera-
tion in this working-day world. I have
often told you, my boy, that I am older
than you."

u As if I doubted that ! " he laughed.

" Very well. I know something about
women. A hundred women will tell you
that they are ready to flee with you ; but
not more than one in the hundred will
really leave everything and follow you
to the end of the world, when the mo-
ment comes for running away. They
always make a fuss at the last, and say

it is too dangerous, and you may be
caught. That is the way of them. You
will be quite ready with a ladder of
ropes, like one of Boccaccio's men, and
a roll of banknotes for the journey,
and smelling-salts, and a cushion for the
puppy dog, and a separate conveyance
for the maid, just according to the di-
rections she has given you ; then, at the
very last, she will perhaps say that she
is afraid of hurting her father's feelings
by leaving him without any warning.
Be careful, Nino ! "

" As for that," he answered sullenly
enough, " if she will not, she will not ;
and I would not attempt to persuade
her against her inclination. But unless
you have very much exaggerated what
you saw in her face, she will be ready
at five minutes' notice. It must be very
like hell, up there in that castle, I should
think."

" Messer Diavolo, who rules over the
house, will not let his prey escape him
so easily as you think."

" Her father ? " he asked.

" No ; Benoni. There is no creature
so relentless as an old man in pursuit of
a young woman."

" I am not afraid of Benoni."

" You need not be afraid of her fa-
ther," said I, laughing. " He is lame, and
cannot run after you." I do not know
why it is that we Romans laugh at lame
people ; we are sorry for them, of course,
as we are for other cripples.

" There is something more than fear
in the matter," said Nino seriously. " It
is a great thing to have upon one's soul."

" What ? " I asked.

" To take a daughter away from her
father without his consent, — or at least
without consulting him. I would not
like to do it."

" Do you mean to ask the old gentle-
man's consent before eloping with his
daughter ? You are a little donkey,
Nino, upon my word."

" Donkey, or anything else you like,
but I will act like a galantuomo. I

190

A Roman Singer.

[February,

will see the count, and ask him once
more whether he is willing to let his
daughter marry me. If not, so much
the worse ; he will be warned."

" Look here, Nino," I said, astonished
at the idea. " I have taught you a lit-
tle logic. Suppose you meant to steal a
horse, instead of a woman. Would you
go to the owner of the horse, with your
hat in your hand, and say, ' I trust your
worship will not be offended if I steal
this horse, which seems to be a good an-
imal and pleases me ; ' and then would
you expect him to allow you to steal
his horse ? "

" Sor Cornelio, the case is not the
same. Women have a right to be free,
and to marry whom they please ; but
horses are slaves. However, as I am
not a thief, I would certainly ask the
man for the horse ; and if he refused it,
and I conceived that I had a right to
have it, I would take, it by force, and
not by stealth."

" It appears to me that if you meant
to get possession of what was not yours
you might as well get it in the easiest
possible way," I objected. " But we
need not argue the case. There is a
much better reason why you should not
consult the count."

" I do not believe it," said Nino stub-
bornly.

" Nevertheless, it is so. The Contes-
sina di Lira is desperately unhappy, and
if nothing is done she may die. Young
women have died of broken hearts be-
fore now. You have no right to endan-
ger her life by risking failure. Answer
me that, if you can, and I will grant you
are a cunning sophist, but not a good
lover."

" There is reason in what you say
now," he answered. " I had not thought
of that desperateness of the case, which
you speak of. You have seen her." He
buried his face in his hand, and seemed
to be thinking.

" Yes, I have seen her, and I wish
you had been in my place. You would

think differently about asking her fa-
ther's leave to rescue her." From having
been anxious to prevent anything rash,
it seemed that I was now urging him
into the very jaws of danger. I think
that Hedwig's face was before me, as
it had been in reality on the previous
evening. " As Curione said to Caesar,
delay is injurious to any one who is fully
prepared for action. I remember also
to have read somewhere that such waste
of time in diplomacy and palavering is
the favorite resource of feeble and timid
minds, who regard the use of dilatory
and ambiguous measures as an evidence
of the most admirable and consummate
prudence."

" Oh, you need not use so much learn-
ing with me," said Nino. " I assure you
that I will be neither dilatory nor am-
biguous. In fact, I will go at once, with-
out even dusting my boots, and I will
say, Give me your daughter, if you cat) ;
and if you cannot, I will still hope to
marry her. He will probably say ' No,'
and then I will carry her off. It ap-
pears to me that is simple enough."

" Take my advice, Nino. Carry her
off first, and ask permission afterwards.
It is much better. The real master up
there is Benoni, I fancy, and not the
count. Benoni is a gentleman who will
give you much trouble. If you go now
to see Hedwig's father, Benoni will be
present at the interview." Nino was
silent, and sat stretching his legs before
him, his head on his breast. " Beuoni,"
I continued, " has made up his mind to
succeed. He has probably taken this
fancy into his head out of pure wicked-
ness. Perhaps he is bored, and really
wants a wife. But I believe he is a
man who delights in cruelty and would
as lief break the contessina's heart by
getting rid of you as by marrying her."
I saw that he was not listening.

" I have an idea," he said at last.
" You are not very wise, Messer Corne-
lio, and you counsel me to be prudent
and to be rash in the same breath."

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

191

" You make very pretty compliments,
Sor Niuo," I answered tartly. He put
out his hand deprecatingly.

" You are as wise as any man can be
who is not in love," he said, looking at
me with his great eyes. " But love is
the best counselor."

" What is your idea ? " I asked, some-
what pacified.

" You say they ride together every
day. Yes — very good. The contessina
will not ride to-day ; partly because she
will be worn out with fatigue from last
night's interview, and partly because
she will make an effort to discover
whether I have arrived to-day or not.
You can count on that."

" I imagine so."

" Very well," he continued ; " in that
case, one of two things will happen :
either the count will go out alone, or
they will all stay at home."

"Why will Benoni not go out with
the count ? "

" Because Benoni will hope to see
Hedwig alone, if he stays at home, and
the count will be very glad to give him
the opportunity."

" I think you are right, Nino. You
are not so stupid as I thought."

" In war," continued the boy, " a gen-
eral gains a great advantage by sepa-
rating his adversary's forces. If the
count goes out alone, I will present my-
self to him in the road, and tell him
what I want."

"]So\v you are foolish again. You
should, on the contrary, enter the house
when the count is away, and take the
signorina with you then and there. Be-
fore he could return you would be miles
on the road to Rome."

" In the first place, I tell you once
and for all, Sor Cornelio," he said slow-
ly, " that such an action would be dis-
honorable, and I will not do anything
of the kind. Moreover, you forget that,
if I followed your advice, I should find
Benoni at home, — the very man from
whom you think I have everything to

fear. No ; I must give the count one
fair chance." I was silent, for I saw he
was determined, and yet I would not let
him think I was satisfied.

The idea of losing an advantage by
giving an enemy any sort of warning
before the attack seemed to me novel in
the extreme ; but I comprehended that
Nino saw in his scheme a satisfaction to
his conscience, and smelled in it a musty
odor of forgotten knight-errantry that
he had probably learned to love in his
theatrical experiences. I had certainly
not expected that Nino Cardegna, the
peasant child, would turn out to be the
pink of chivalry and the mirror of hon-
or. But I could not help admiring his
courage, and wondering if it would not
play him false at the perilous moment.
I did not half know him then, though
he had been with me for so many years.
But I was very anxious to ascertain
from him what he meant to do, for I
feared that his bold action would make
trouble, and I had visions of the count
and Benoui together taking sudden and
summary vengeance on myself.

" Nino," I said, " I have made great
sacrifices to help you in finding these
people," — I would not tell him I had
sold my vineyard to make preparations
for a longer journey, though he has
since found it out, — " but if you are
going to do anything rash I will get on
my little ass, and ride a few miles from
the village, until it is over." Nino
laughed aloud.

" My dear professor," he said, " do
not be afraid. I will give you plenty
of time to get out of the way. Mean-
while, the contessina is certain to send
the confidential servant of whom you
speak, to give me instructions. If I am
not here, you ought to be, in order to re-
ceive the message. Now listen to me."

I prepared to be attentive and to hear
his scheme. I was by no means expect-
ing the plan he proposed.

" The count may take it into his head
to ride at a different hour, if he rides

192

A Roman Singer.

[February,

alone," he began. " I will therefore
have my mule saddled now, and will sta-
tion my man — a countryman from Su-
biaco and good for any devilry — in some
place where he can watch the entrance
to the house, or the castle, or whatever
you call this place. So soon as he sees
the count come out he will call me. As
a man can ride in only one of two di-
rections in this valley, I shall have no
trouble, whatever in meeting the old
gentleman, even if I cannot overtake
him with my mule."

" Have you any arms, Nino ? "
" No. I do not want weapons to face
an old man in broad daylight ; and he
is too much of a soldier to attack me if
I am defenceless. If the servant comes
after I am gone, you must remember
every detail of what he says, and you
must also arrange a little matter with
him. Here is money, as much as will
keep any Roman servant quiet. The
man will be rich before we have done
with him. I will write a letter, which
he must deliver ; but he must also know
what he has to do.

" At twelve o'clock to-night the con-
tessina must positively be at the door
of the staircase by which you entered
yesterday. Positively — do you under-
stand ? She will then choose for her-
self between what she is suffering now
arid flight with me. If she chooses to
fly, my mules and my countryman will
be ready. The servant who admits me
had better make the best of his way to
Rome, with the money he has got.
There will be difficulties in the way of
getting the contessina to the staircase,
especially as the count will be in a tow-
ering passion with me, and will not sleep
much. But he will not have the small-
.est idea that I shall act so suddenly, and
he will fancy that when once his daugh-
ter is safe within the walls for the night
she will not think of escaping. I do
not believe he even knows of the ex-
istence of this staircase. At all events,
it appears, from your success in bribing

the first man you met, that the ser-
vants are devoted to her interests and
their own, and not at all to those of her
father."

" I cannot conceive, Nino," said I,
" why you do not put this bold plan into
execution without seeing the count first,
and making the whole thing so danger-
ous. If he takes alarm in the night, he
will catch you fast enough on his good
horses, before you are at Trevi."

"I am determined to act as I pro-
pose," said Nino, " because it is a thou-
sand times more honorable, and because
I, am certain that the contessina would
not have me act otherwise. She will
also see for herself that flight is best ;
for I am sure the count will make a
scene of some kind when he conies
home from meeting me. If she knows
she can escape to-night she will not suf-
fer from what he has to say ; but she
will understand that without the pros-
pect of freedom she would suffer very
much."

" Where did you learn to understand
women, my boy ? " I asked.

" I do not understand women in gen-
eral," he answered, "but I understand
very well the only woman who exists
for me personally. I know that she is
the soul of honor, and that at the same
time she has enough common sense to
perceive the circumstances of her situa-
tion."

" But how will you make sure of not
being overtaken ? " I objected, making
a last feeble stand against his plan.

" That is simple enough. My coun-
tryman from Subiaco knows every inch
of these hills. He says that the pass
above Fillettino is impracticable for any
animals save men, mules, and donkeys.
A horse would roll down at every turn.
My mules are the best of their kind,
and there are none like them here. By
sunrise I shall be over the Serra and
well on the way to Ceprano, or what-
ever place I may choose for joining the
railroad."

1884.]

A Roman Singer.

193

"And I? "Will you leave me here
to be murdered by that Prussian dev-
il ?" I asked, in some alarm.

" Why, no, padre mio. If you like,
you can start for Rome at sunset, or as
soon as I return from meeting the count ;
or you cau get on your donkey and go
up the pass, where we shall overtake
you. Nobody will harm you, in your
disguise, and your donkey is even more
sure-footed than my mules. It will be
a bright night, too, for the moon is full."

" Well, well, Nino," said I at last, " I
suppose you will have your own way, as
you always do in the world. And if it
must be so, I will go up the pass alone,
for I am not afraid at all. It would
be against all the proprieties that you
should be riding through a wild country
alone at night with the young lady you
intend to marry ; and if I go with you
there will be nothing to be said, for
I am a very proper person, and hold a
responsible position in Rome. But for
charity's sake, do not undertake any-
thing of this kind again " —

" Again ? " exclaimed Nino, in sur-
prise. " Do you expect me to spend my
life in getting married, — not to say in
eloping ? "

"Well, I trust that you will have
enough of it this time."

" I cannot conceive that when a man
has once married the woman he loves
he should ever look at another," said
Nino gravely.

" You are a most blessed fellow," I
exclaimed.

Nino found my writing materials,
which consisted of a bad steel pen, some
coarse ruled paper, and a wretched little
saucer of ink, and began writing an
epistle to the contessina. I watched him
as he wrote, and I smoked a little to pass
the time. As I looked at him, I came
to the conclusion that to-day, at least,
he was handsome. His thick hair curled
about his head, and his white skin was
as pale and clear as milk. I thought

that his complexion had grown less dark
than it used to be, perhaps from being
so much in the theatre at night. That
takes the dark blood out of the cheeks.
But any woman would have looked
twice at him. Besides, there was, as
there is now, a certain marvelous neat-
ness and spotlessness about his dress ;
but for his dusty boots, you would not
have guessed he had been traveling.
Poor Nino ! When he had not a penny
in the world but what he earned by
copying music, he used to spend it all
with the washerwoman, so that Mariuc-
cia was often horrified, and I reproved
him for the extravagance.

At last he finished writing, and put
his letter into the only envelope there was
left. He gave it to me, and said he would
go out and order his mules to be ready.

" I may be gone all day," he said,
" and I may return in a few hours. I
cannot tell. In any case, wait for me,
and give the letter and all the instruc-
tions to the man, if he comes." Then
he thanked me once more very affec-
tionately, and having embraced me he
went out.

I watched from the window, and he
looked up and waved his hand. I re-
member it very distinctly — just how
he looked. His face was paler than
ever, his lips were close set, though they
smiled, and his eyes were sad. He is an
incomprehensible boy — he always was.

I was left alone, with plenty of time
for meditation, and I assure you my
reflections were not pleasant. O love,
love, what madness you drive us into,
by day and night ! Surely it is better
to be a sober professor of philosophy
than to be in love, ever so wildly, or
sorrowfully, or happily. I do not won-
der that a parcel of idiots have tried to
prove that Dante loved philosophy and
called it Beatrice. He would have been
a sober professor, if that were true, and
a happier man. But I am sure it is not
true, for I was once in love myself.

F. Marion Crawford.

194

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India. [February,

THE VAGABONDS AND CRIMINALS OF INDIA.

THE study of the vagabonds and
criminals of India demonstrates with
special force the purely arbitrary na-
ture of the moral standards which men
have set up for themselves in different
parts of the world. When, in the West,
Buckle first made the statement that,
given a certain proportion of Frenchmen,
Englishmen, or Germans, the average
number of suicides, murders, and larce-
nies committed by them could be accu-
rately calculated, it was feared that his
statistical treatment would undermine
sound morality. Yet the Hindus have
so little doubted that there must always
be a fixed ratio of crime and vice that
they have strengthened the natural cer-
tainty by the influence of their religion
and ethics. A few years ago British
officials were startled on finding that
the census returns of a certain Hindu
province included the names of thieves,
murderers, sorcerers, poisoners, and beg-
gars ; but that these returns were given
in all seriousness was later confirmed
by similar reports from other provinces.
The truth is that in India crime and
vagrancy, like fighting and farming, are
regular professions, and the men who
follow them have laws, a religion, and a
language all their own, and are united
by ties more binding than any which
have held together mediaeval guilds or
modern trades-unions. Were this mere-
ly the result of their efforts to consoli-
date their forces, it would not be so re-
markable. Men who have lived by il-
legitimate means have, the world over,
drawn together for mutual aid. But
the esprit du corps which gave power to
strolling beggars and vagrants in the
Middle Ages, to Robin Hood and his
" tough-belted " outlaws, to Spanish and
Italian banditti, and which to-day stimu-
lates the criminal classes of Europe and
America, has always been maintained

in direct disregard to established laws,
while that which exists among Hindu
vagabonds results from strict adherence
to them. In one instance there is a
rebellion against, in the other compli-
ance with, social commands. It would
be impossible to understand this ex-
ceptional phase of immorality without
knowing something of the caste system
which has been the cause of it.

Whether the four great castes of
Brahmans or priests, Kshatriyas or war-
riors, Vaisyas or merchants, and Sudras
or servants were formed because of the
legend relating the manner of their ori-
gin from the head, arms, thighs, and
feet, respectively, of Brahma, or wheth-
er this was an after-invention, intended
to give divine sanction to an existing
state of affairs, it is difficult to decide.
But however that may be, it is certain
that this division was made in an ear-
ly age, probably even before the end
of the Vedic period, and that its conse-
quent religious and social requirements
have been of such primal importance
that, despite reformers and missionaries,
invaders and conquerors, they have been
faithfully observed unto the present
time. The Brahman, who has outlived
Chaldean and Assyrian, Persian and
Egyptian civilizations, and survived Mo-
hammedan, Mogul, and Christian rule,
is to the European traveler of to-day
what the Pope of Rome will be to Ma-
caulay's famous New Zealander. In
almost every country, class distinctions
have been continually modified as men
with higher culture became more liberal.
But in India any change or modification
has been prevented by the fact that
Hindus of all stations of life have for
long centuries been taught that their
highest spiritual and temporal duty is
to marry within their own castes, and
to follow throughout their lives the pro-

1884.]

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India.

195

fessions to which they are born. That
such artificial barriers were at times
overthrown is a matter of course. Cela
va sans dire. The very statutes upon
this subject, recorded in the Code of
Manu and the Institutes of Vishnu, pre-
suppose the crimes against which they
guard. Hindus were but mortal, and,
notwithstanding the law and its penal-
ties, there were intermarriages. But,
like the mulatto, who cannot be ranked
with his Caucasian or his African par-
ent, the offspring of these mesalliances
could not be included in the social genus
of either their father or their mother.
The increasing complications of civilized
life gave rise to new forms of work ;
yet the man who deserted for them the
trade of his forefathers was isolated
from his family and former associates.
The problems thus raised were solved
by the creation of a multiplicity of
lower castes. But just as the ethnol-
ogist occasionally finds individuals of
abnormal physical formation, beyond
the limits of classification, so there were
some beings who, because of their vile
trade, or still viler birth, seemed to the
Hindus moral monstrosities, for whom
there was no place in their social scheme.
Strong as was the hatred of Greek for
barbarian, or of Jew for Gentile, it was
exceeded by that of the Hindu for Mlek-
kas or non-Aryans. He could not ignore
the aboriginal inhabitants of the coun-
try which he had conquered, and whom
he had not been able to wholly extermi-
nate, but he looked upon them as crea-
tures too low to be used as slaves or
servants, or even as beasts of burden.
They were, in his estimation, no better
than unclean animals, from whose con-
taminating contact and presence it was
necessary to shield legitimate members
of society. For all social purposes it
was the same as if they did not exist.
They were not permitted to belong to
any caste, and the law and the religion
of the land knew them not. There was
thus, in the midst of a people whose

obligations of every kind were defined
with unparalleled exactness, a large pop-
ulation of men and women to whom all
rights and duties were denied. To their
numbers were added those political and
religious offenders among men of caste
for vvhom death of the body was deemed
too merciful a punishment, and the sons
and daughters born of what was consid-
ered the infamous union of a Brahman
with a Sudra. The large proportion of
this degraded class were therefore liter-
ally out-castes.

Driven forth from human habitations,
it was truly the wilderness that yielded
food for them and their children. Out-
casts — or pariahs, as they are usually
called — were not merely banished from
towns and villages, but were forbidden
to join together to form any of their
own. Because their use of fire and
water would have sullied the purity of
those elements, they were forced to eat
uncooked meat and vegetables, and they
could drink no water save that to be
found in marshes, or in holes made in
the ground by the hoofs of animals.
Since they communicated their impurity
to everything they touched, the work of
then? hands was as much shunned by
their social superiors as they were them-
selves. And furthermore, as legally they
were not recognized to be in existence,
there was for them no redress if what-
ever little property they possessed was
confiscated ; while the murder of one of
them by a man of pure caste was con-
sidered by him no greater crime than
the stepping on an insect is by a Euro-
pean. The refined cruelty with which
they were treated is almost beyond the
comprehension of races who, whatever
may be their practice, believe that all
human beings are equal in the sight of
God ; and it seems still more monstrous
when contrasted with the kindness of
the " mild Hindu " to his domestic an-
imals. On the one hand, the Sacred
Books of India teach that " scratching
the back of a cow destroys all guilt, and

196

TJie Vagabonds and Criminals of India. [February,

giving her to eat procures exaltation in
heaven ; " but again we are told that
" he who associates with an outcast is
outcasted himself a year. And so is
he who rides in the same carriage with
him, or who eats in his company, or who
sits on the same bench, or who lies on
the same couch with him."

So much of the world's work in the
past could not have been accomplished,
had it not been for the extreme forms of
servitude and slavery, that these seem
like necessary evils. But there is no
vindication for a social system which
has encouraged a degradation lower and
more bitter than Babylonian captivity,
Spartan helotism, or European serfdom ;
which has reduced men and women to
poverty and wretchedness beyond belief ;
and which, by preventing their working
with or for others, has actually forced
them into crime and knavery.

At first pariahs must have rebelled
against this pitiless injustice. Perhaps,
as has been suggested, it was caste tyr-
anny which, in still earlier times, led
Aryans to seek a new home in Europe,
and which gave the impetus to that other
large immigration supposed to have been
made from the southern part of India
into Africa. It is certain that once an
inspired poet sought, like the prophets
of Israel, to rouse his fellow-sufferers to
action. This was Tiruvalluvfi, the " di-
vine pariah," probably a disgraced Brah-
man, who bitterly resented his wrongs.
" Thy time is come. Therefore, awake,
O thou man of the jungle ! " he called
to the pariahs, in poetry as impassioned
as that of Jeremiah or Isaiah. His was
but a voice in the wilderness. What
was needed was a Moses, to show the
way out of it. Other outcasts, seeking
to reinstate themselves by quiet and
stealth, crept back gradually to cities
and villages. But their movements
were observed, and the condition upon
which they were allowed to remain was
that they should become brick-makers,
— earth, by its inherent virtue, purify-

ing itself from their touch ; while for
wages they were to receive nothing but
their food ; and they were required to
make their home in the outskirts of the
town, in worse than Ghetto retirement.
Uninterrupted hard work under a burn-
ing sun, supported by a diet of raw veg-
etables, principally onions, had at least
one advantage, — it hastened their death ;
and this was the only way in which
their misery could be alleviated. But
they clung to life with a tenacity which
increased in proportion to its evils, and
few consented to better themselves so-
cially by the sacrifice of physical health.
Many who had scarcely advanced be-
yond the savage state relapsed into it ;
hiding themselves in the jungle, and
avoiding all communication with other
men. The majority, to whom this was
too distasteful, embraced a nomadic ex-
istence, and procured their actual neces-
sities sometimes by fair means, some-
times by foul ; in all such matters being
ruled by circumstances. These latter
were the ancestors of the present vaga-
bonds and criminals, and the roaming
they then began has proved as ceaseless
as that of the Wandering Jew. The
hope of escape became less and less with
every generation, and they finally re-
signed themselves to their fate. Custom
can reconcile man to what is disagree-
able, and, like the aged prisoner who
was broken-hearted at leaving the prison
which in his youth he had entered with
loathing, pariahs finished by prizing the
social isolation which at first had been so
bitter to them. So soon as they showed
themselves as unwilling to lead a settled
life and to follow legitimate trades as
the Brahmans were that they should do
so, the strictness of the laws against
them was very much relaxed. Men of
caste were not so particular in keeping
them at a fixed distance, and even con-
descended to be amused, and in minor
ways assisted by them.

A system which stifled hopes, ambi-
tions, and aspirations made the repent-

1884.]

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India.

197

ance and self-improvement of sinners
and ne'er-do-weels utterly impossible.
Outcasts, instead of being cut down like
grass and withering as the green herb,
grew both in strength and numbers.
To-day they constitute one third of the
native population of India. They have
exhausted all the resources of life in
tents and by the wayside, and have per-
fected themselves in lawlessness. Every
nomadic calling and custom which has
ever been known in any part of the
world has its counterpart in India. In-
deed, that country is so preeminently
the headquarters of gypsydom that one
wonders how there ever could have
arisen any doubt as to the origin of the
European Romanys. There is not a
family or tribe of Hindu outcasts which
has not one or two traits in common
with the gypsy, while, as Mr. Leland
has pointed out, in the Rom or Trablu
we have the pure, thoroughbred Roma-
ny, in name and in language as well as
in character. There are really endless
shades of difference in the habits and
pursuits of pariahs. Among them, as
among the " travelers " of Europe and
America, there are musicians and actors,
horse-dealers and bear-leaders, tinkers
and smiths, fortune-tellers and basket-
makers, jugglers and acrobats, beggars
and tramps. With them all, even when
they are apparently honest, there lin-
gers a subtle if inexplicable hint of vil-
lainy and duplicity, or, " as among the
Greeks of old with Mercury amid the
singing of leafy brooks, there is a tink-
ling of at least petty larceny." And as
suggestion may become certainty, or as
tinkling often grows louder than song,
so vagabondage is unfortunately too fre-
quently cast into the background by
crime, and pariahs devote themselves
wholly to murder and theft. Their
choice of occupation has been at times
regulated by their innate tastes and ten-
dencies : for there is a natural diver-
sity in the instincts of such men as
Doms and Nats, who are usually actors

and musicians, and of Mangs, who are
the most good-for-nothing of all beggar-
ly loafers ; or of such as Bhils and Juts,
whose fierceness makes them good war-
riors, and of Korvarus, whose name has
become proverbial for stupidity. But
as a rule, just as chance has led birds by
the water-side to feed on fish and those
in field and forest to subsist on grain
and worms, so circumstances have com-
pelled some outcasts to murder and rob
in order to secure the necessities of life,
but have allowed others to gain the
same end by tight-rope dancing and the
turning of somersaults. For very much
the same reasons, while many are as
restless as if cursed with the curse of
Cain, there are others who wander only
at certain seasons, and still others who
confine their depredations and vagran-
cy to one particular locality. The Eng-
lish police draw a very distinct line be-
tween the non-wandering criminal and
non-criminal wandering tribes, but they
themselves do not invariably observe
this distinction. For, if the former
found a good opportunity to commit
crime in some far distant province, they
would not hesitate to journey thither ;
and if a chicken strayed into the tents
or a purse fell at the feet of the latter,
they would have no objections to appro-
priate it.

The variety of races included in this
large class has been further increased
by the fact that during comparatively
recent years members of high castes
have allied themselves with the wander-
ers, attracted to them by the freedom
of their lives. Brahmans have shared
the fortunes of highwaymen. Rajputs
and Sudras have abandoned kingdoms
and villages for huts and tents. But as
men of every nationality, when they ac-
cept the laws and customs of the United
States, become identified with native-born
citizens, these voluntary outcasts have
so adapted themselves to vagabondage
that, for all intents and purposes, they
are not to be distinguished from gen-

198

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India. [February,

uine pariahs. While it would require
volumes to enumerate their divisions
and subdivisions and to record their ex-
periences in the past, it is possible even
in a short article to treat of them as a
class, since all, however much they may
differ in minor particulars, agree in their
conception of life's chief object and du-
ties. All, from highest to lowest, make
the physical maintenance and survival
of the individual the mainspring of ac-
tivity. However different may be the
means employed by them, their aim is
always the same. If the definition of
"conduct" is the adjustment of acts to
ends, then their actions may be dignified
by that name. For in order to accom-
plish their object, — that is, in order to
fully satisfy their bodily appetites, —
they have established for themselves
religious commandments which they
scrupulously obey, and a social code to
which they strictly adhere.

Irreconcilable as crime and religion
seem, they have often gone hand in
hand. The Virgin Mary has had few
more faithful followers than mediaeval
outlaws and Italian brigands ; but the
prayers of robbers and highwaymen to
the Refuge of the Afflicted are quite as
incongruous as are those of a Louis XL
to the Mother of Mercy. The piety of
Hindu ruffians and rogues is at least
more consistent. One of the principal
deities of the Hindu Pantheon is Deva,
or Kali, or Bhawani, the Sakti, or fe-
male part of Siva, who is the goddess of
destruction. Human sacrifices are to
her what prayer and meditation are to
Brahma, and streams of human blood
what libations of clarified butter are to
her fellow deities. More terrible than
Baal or Moloch, she revels in death's-
heads and skeletons, and exults in car-
nage. Virtuous men and women have
no gift wherewith to propitiate her, but
assassins cater to her divine appetite,
and theft is to her as a sweet-smelling
incense. Were her worshipers philoso-
phers, they could plead an altruistic mo-

tive for their murders ; for the blood of
one man will quench her horrible thirst
for a thousand years, and the blood
of three men for a hundred thousand.
As it is, they believe in sincerity that
their vilest atrocities are ordained by
heaven, and that they are rewarded for
the perpetration of them by the imme-
diate protection of deity ; a belief which
would be simply impossible to criminals
in Christian countries. The doctrines
and laws based upon such a worship
convert crime into a religious duty. It
was in vain that towards the beginning
of their struggles Tiruvalluva endeav-
ored to elevate the moral nature of pa-
riahs by assuring them that virtue is the
only true wealth, and that pleasure con-
sists in the mastery of the passions. He
might as well have recommended flying
as the most perfect way of getting from
one place to another, or mewing as the
most intelligible manner of communi-
cating their thoughts; for they would
have found it quite as easy to mew or
to fly away into space as to be virtuous
or self - controlled. But when orders
were given them as to the how and the
whence necessities were to be procured,
they recognized a practical element
therein, and obeyed them to the very
letter. The thieves of India to-day have
religious precepts which define the priv-
ileges and limits of their trade, and are
as sacred to them as the commandments
of Moses are to Jews and Christians.
These they believe to have been re-
vealed, together with their slang, by the
god Kartikeya, who, according to Cap-
tain Burton, is a mixture of Mars and
Mercury. Murderers too have heaven-
sanctioned mandates, which set forth the
orthodox manners in which murder can
be committed, and which men are and
which are not its legitimate victims.
Never has there been such a straining
at gnats and swallowing of camels !
Men who morally are so blind that
wrong seems to them right scruple at
the slightest deviation from laws which

1884.]

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India.

199

are valueless. The Soonaria, who is an
inveterate pickpocket and petty pilferer,
vows to his goddess never to become a
highwayman or burglar. He may steal
ad libitum during the daytime, but
should he do so between the hours of
sunset and sunrise he would be guilty of
mortal sin. It was because of their re-
ligious principles that the Thugs, before
their extermination by the English,
never robbed without first committing
murder, never allowed one of a cap-
tured party to escape, and always spared
pariahs and women. The neglect of his
ablutions is no greater crime for a Brah-
man than the violation of these decrees
is for pious criminals. The downfall of
the Thugs is attributed to their relaxa-
tion in religious discipline. A certain
gang of Phansigars is said never to have
prospered because on one occasion they
murdered a woman.

Bhawani worshipers are sincerely ear-
nest in their piety. They never under-
take an expedition, no matter how in-
significant, without first appealing to
her for help ; and they have a number
of minor rites and ceremonies by which
they endeavor at all times to please and
honor her. The Lungotee Pardhis,
who are desperate burglars, are so de-
vout that the women of the tribe never
wear silver anklets, because the statue of
the goddess, placed in every tent as its
presiding genius, is made of that metal ;
they cannot wear red apparel, because
she is always represented resting on a
ground of that color ; they cannot sleep
in cots, since she reclines on one ; and,
for fear of offending her, shoes are never,
under any circumstances, carried within
their tents. The Bowries, who infest
the central provinces, make pilgrimages
from enormous distances, at great per-
sonal inconvenience, to Kerolee, where
there is a shrine of Deva, supposed to
possess special merit and sanctity. As
in Catholic countries children are dressed
in blue and white in honor of the Vir-
gin, so the Thugs used white and yellow

nooses because these were colors conse-
crated to Deva. The Thugs had good
reason to reverence the goddess, for, ac-
cording to a favorite legend, there was
a time when she herself was their im-
mediate accomplice. In her insatiable
hunger for human food, she devoured
all the men they murdered on their ex-
peditions, thus lessening the circumstan-
tial evidence against them. But she
made one condition, as all supernatural
beings, from the spirit that denies down
to the wicked witch of fairy lore, have
a way of doing in their contracts with
mankind ; she forbade them ever to
look at her while she was at her repast.
Once, a novice in Thuggee — for there
must always be a Peeping Tom of Cov-
entry— disobeyed her injunction, and
turned and gazed at her just as the feet
of the last victim were disappearing
down the divine throat. In her fierce
wrath, she declared that thenceforward
she would withhold her active aid, but,
that she might not altogether lose such
valuable servants, she taught them how
they could cut up and bury the bodies
of the slain without leaving a trace.
Then she gave them a rib for a knife,
the hem of her garment for a noose, and
one of her teeth for a pickaxe. It was
because of its heavenly origin that this
pickaxe, thrown into a well at night for
purposes of concealment, would rise in
the morning at the first word of command
from the Thug who had it in charge.

Superstitious to a degree known only
in India, unprincipled men, who live by
deeds of daring, quail before unreal dan-
gers. Let but a hare or a snake cross
his path, or an owl screech in the dis-
tance ; let but one of his party kill a
tiger, or a dog run off with the head of
a sacrificed sheep, and there is not a
robber or highwayman hardy enough to
pursue his enterprise, even if petitions
and sacrifices have already been offered
in due form to Bhawani. But the chirp-
ing of a lizard, the cawing of a crow
from a tree to the left side, the appear-

200

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India. [February,

ance of a tiger, or the call of a partridge
on the right, will restore his confidence,
making his success seem sure. The
classical robber of the Hindu drama
hastens cheerfully to his work if he
passes a rat-hole.

While the first outcasts robbed and
murdered and begged from necessity,
their descendants to-day do so in order
to fulfill what they consider to be a so-
cial obligation. With the blindness of
the heroes of Greek tragedy, they, in an
early period, bound themselves irrevo-
cably to their fate by adopting distinc-
tions of caste similar to and inexorable
as those which had wrought their wretch-
edness. There are castes even among
outcasts. Pariahs are, in consequence,
as jealous of their impurity as Brah-
mans are of their purity. The privi-
leges and restrictions of their own mak-
ing are more serious impediments in the
way of their improvement than the en-
mity of the " twice-born," or Hindu
aristocracy. Their vital principle of be-
lief is that the most unpardonable of
all offenses is for an outcast to desert
the tribe in which he is born, or aban-
don the profession of his fathers. In
their social starvation, they themselves
reject the meat and drink that could
save them. Intermarriages are as strict-
ly avoided by professional criminals and
vagrants as if the laws of Manu had
been made for them. A Hindu Thug,
in the palmy days of Thuggee, would
have died rather than marry one of his
daughters or sisters to a brother mur-
derer who professed the creed of Moham-
med. The Mangs, whose poverty and
squalor are unrivaled, would indignantly
refuse a Brahman who might offer him-
self in' marriage. Among these people,
a Lazarus, while he might eagerly seize
the crumbs from a Dives' table, would
scruple sitting at it with him. The
Chenchwars carry their contempt for all
castes and tribes but their own to such
an extent that they declare they live in
the jungle for the sake of health, be-

cause there the smell of other men can-
not reach them.

The criminal's estimation of the crime
peculiar to his family is a serious realiza-
tion of P'alstaff's ideas as to the moral
value of his purloining of purses : " Why,
Hal, it is my vocation ! 'T is no sin for
a man to labor in his vocation ! " When
a Thug strangler was asked whether he
never felt remorse after killing innocent
people, he answered in perfect good
faith, " Does any man feel compunction
in following his trade, and are not all
our trades assigned us by Providence ? "
Conscientious scruples might as well be
expected of a spider feasting on the flies
in its nets, or of a tiger devouring its
human victims. Nor are the pariah's
feelings on the subject merely negative.
The most confirmed criminal and the
most good-for-nothing vagabond alike
take real pride in their wickedness and
vileness. Men of the caste of Calaris,
when interrogated as to their trade, with
thorough self-satisfaction proclaim them-
selves robbers. The greatest compli-
ment which a Thug could receive was
praise of his skill as single-handed stran-
gler. The very word Thug signifies de-
ceiver. Phansigar, Ari Tulucar, Tanti
Callern, Warlu Wahudlu, as stranglers
have been called in different parts of
India, refer to their use of a noose.
Thieves and beggars, like the Artful
Dodger, would scorn all other but their
own employments. This distorted con-
ception of duty cannot be wondered at,
since even the Bhagavad-Gita, a book
which contains the highest moral wis-
dom of the Hindus, teaches that it is

" Better to do the duty of one's caste,
Though bad and ill performed and fraught with

ill,

Than undertake the business of another,
However good it be."

Indeed, so much stress is laid upon this
doctrine that no occasion is lost of im-
pressing its necessity upon the people.
" Verily," it is asserted in the drama of
Sakuntala, " the occupation in which a

1884.]

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India.

201

man is born, though it be in bad repute,
must not be abandoned." At least in
this one respect outcasts are in thorough
accord with the men who despise them.
Their laws have been obeyed to the
very letter throughout many generations,
and hence pariahs have acquired great
proficiency in their hereditary callings,
but have become absolutely indifferent
to their mental and moral welfare.
Free from conflicting aimsj they have
been able to direct their entire energy
into one channel. Indian acrobats and
jugglers learn to turn and tumble and
master the art of legerdemain with an
ease that would be the envy of Western
Houdins or Ravels. No national theatre
or college of musicians is needed in a
country where men have greater natural
talent for acting than even Italians, or
are devoted to music from infancy, as
Slavonian bards are to poetry. It is
not surprising that the pariah fortune-
teller continues to gull the Gorgio in
the streets of Bombay and the courts of
Cairo, as well as in the green lanes of
England and wild prairies of America,
since shrewd observance and an intui-
tive knowledge of the follies of human-
ity have, with the peaked corners of her
eyes, been heirlooms in her family for
untold ages. Neither is it strange that
beggars are adepts in every device and
stratagem practiced by the brotherhood
throughout the world, since their ances-
tors for many centuries have made alms-
asking the study of their lives. But it
is as thieves and murderers that they
shine forth stars of the first magnitude.
" To be imperfect being their essence,"
in the words of De Quinceyj " the very
greatness of their imperfection becomes
their perfection." Grimm's master thief
might take a lesson, and profit thereby,
from Bowries and Soonarias. Well
might De Quincey's Toad-in-the-hole
and amateur murderers give a dinner in
honor of the Thugs, for the latter were
the most skilled professionals in the art
of murder who have ever existed. The
VOL. LIU NO. 315. 14

work of Hindu assassins and robbers is
never marred by the shortcomings and
oversights of bungling apprentices. As
the painter looks to his brushes and can-
vas before he begins his picture, so these
artists give due attention to all minor
accessories before proceeding to their
main work. If it be to their advantage
to assume a disguise, or affect qualities
foreign to their nature, they do so with
a heroism worthy of a better cause.
Thugs, when on their murdering expe-
ditions, were so courteous and friendly
in manner that travelers falling in with
them begged to be allowed the privi-
lege of joining their parties, and threw
themselves on their protection as they
journeyed through lonely places. High-
waymen, who have found it to their ad-
vantage to maintain a respectable exte-
rior, live, when not on active duty, in
large, fine houses, and cultivate their
fields. Budhuck Bowries, true wolves
in sheep's clothing, pass themselves off
as religious mendicants, and are so fa-
miliar with the necessary prayers and
customs that none but a real Gossei or
Byragee can detect the imposture. Oth-
er tribes of Bowries, for ostensible occu-
pation, repair millstones ; and in this
manner they make their way by day into
houses that they intend to rob by night,
and acquaint themselves with the habits
of the household. Peddling, fortune-
telling, and all kindred small trades,
which are to the lower classes what the
eye of the Ancient Mariner was to the
wedding-guest, serve as convenient pass-
ports into premises which otherwise they
would never be allowed to enter.

From philosophers who believe that a
man must

"contend to the uttermost
For his life's set prize, be it what it wiU,"

these evil-doers deserve praise for their
perseverance and energy. But beyond
this nothing can be said in their favor.
Hindu highwaymen and robbers are
utterly without the love of adventure
and keen pleasure ir> physical strength

202

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India. [February,

which led the fearless northern Ber-
serkers over wide seas, laughing at the
tempest as they went, into far distant
lauds, in quest of plunder. Much can
be forgiven men who, like Regner Lod-
brok, in the very arms of death, chant
with exultation of the days when they
smote with swords. But sympathy is
never awakened for Thug-like caitiffs,
who, instead of facing foes in fair fight,
fall upon them as a tiger springs upon
its prey. One admires the chivalric
bravery of outlaws typified by Adam
Bell, Gym of the Clough, and William
of Cloudesle who, unaided, defied all
the men of merry Carlisle ; or by Robin
Hood, who gave Guy of Gisborne proof
of his unerring skill as marksman be-
fore he would contend with him in sin-
gle combat. Men of this stamp are fit
heroes of romance. But one feels noth-
ing but contempt towards professional
murderers, for whom the chances in their
own favor must be three to one before
they venture upon an attack, and who
will smile, Judas-fashion, in a man's face
even as they give his death-signal.

Like the student who devotes himself
to one study, but neglects general cul-
ture, these men have won their success
in iniquity and in petty professions at
the expense of all the finer feelings and
nobler qualities of which human nature
is capable. If, on the one hand, they
manifest a marked proficiency, on the
other there is a total deficiency. En-
tirely concerned with the gaining of
their daily bread, for all other purposes
they have no guide but impulse and ex-
pediency. Eat thou, and be filled ! has
hitherto been their one law. Hence they
have never realized that they owe a duty
to their fellow-men as well as to them-
selves. They know nothing of that high-
er moral dictate which exacts that the
aims of the individual must not inter-
fere with those of the community ; that
one man's good must not be another
man's ill. For them there is no struggle

in deciding between physical pleasure

and moral duty. Their standard of right
and wrong being their own bodily well-
being, whatever contributes to it seems
to them good ; whatever interferes with
it, bad. According to their lights, self-
sacrifice is vicious ; brutish selfishness is
virtuous. They test the merit of their
pursuits by their profitable results, and
consequently attach the same value to
assassination and fortune-telling, theft
and bear - leading, provided by these
means they obtain the wherewithal to
satisfy their hunger and quench their
thirst. " Since vices with them are
profitable, it is the virtuous man who
is the sinner." Because they have no
sense of morality, their actions cannot
be fairly judged by our standards. They
neither intend to bid defiance to the
law, as is the case with ordinary crim-
inals in the "West, nor do they hope,
with Nihilists and Socialists, to sanctify*
means by the end they have in view.
They are not immoral, but immoral.
And because their deficiencies are the
result of degeneracy, and not of primi-
tive imperfection, there is less chance
for their development than for that of
savages. They are moral as well as
social outcasts.

Their curious moral insensibility is
strikingly shown in the fables current
among them. Strange as it may seem,
pariahs have a literature of their own.
The popular tales of India originated
with them, and are the expression of
that laughter at their betters which
lightens the burden of servitude, and
their satire is gayly reechoed in the
farces and burlesques of Dom composi-
tion. They have at least one poet,
Tiruvalluvu, whose inspiration, however,
was derived from Brahman rather than
from pariah ideals. Interesting as their
stories, plays, and poetry are, forming
really a study by themselves, it is only
in their fables that they deal directly
with ethical questions, and hence these
alone are appropriate to the present sub-
ject. The fables of all nations are in-

1884.]

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India.

203

tended to convey a moral lesson, usually
of a homely, practical nature, calculated
to suit the lower and ignorant classes,
who would be much less impressed by
the lofty doctrines of a Zeno, a Marcus
Aurelius, or a Thomas a Kempis. They
recommend virtue and depreciate vice,
not for themselves, but because man will
and must gain by practicing the one
and avoiding the other. If a dog, in
crossing a stream, loses the bone from
its mouth by snapping at its reflection
in the water ; or if a crow, succumbing
to the insinuating compliments of a fox,
drops its piece of cheese by opening
its mouth to display its vocal powers,
the lesson to be learned is that greedi-
ness, covetousness, and vanity are pas-
sions the gratification of which will, in
the long run, produce pain much greater
in proportion than the immediate pleas-
ure derived from them. Be good, not
for goodness' sake, but because it is to
your advantage to be so ! The fables
of the pariahs are like these inasmuch
as their basis is pure utilitarianism, but
differ from them in upholding the ex-
pediency of evil. Be selfish, cruel, and
ungrateful, for generosity, kindness, and
gratitude may contribute to the pleasure
of your fellows, but will leave you de-
cidedly in the lurch ! This is the teach-
ing of outcasts. As the pariah himself
is an anomaly in civilization, so is his
fable a curiosity in the literature of
ethics. The following is a fair illustra-
tion of the naivete with which he avows
self-interest to be with him the first of
all considerations : —

THE CROW AND THE MANGOUS.

A pariah had spread nets in the
jungle, in hopes to catch therein a bird
for his midday meal. A crow, who was
hovering in the air in wait for prey
spied a piece of cocoanut in the grass.

" Here," he cried, " is an appetizing
fruit, which has fallen upon the ground
expressly for my benefit ! " He flew
down to secure it, but scarcely had he

touched it when he was caught fast in
the pariah's net. In vain did he seek to
escape. The snare held him fast, and the
black wanderer discovered that he was a
prisoner. Then he broke out into loud
cries and wails of supplication to his
brother crows. But they only mocked
him, as they flew above his head, and
told him that the first time he would
prove of use in the world would be when
his body furnished them with a hearty
meal.

" Deliver me," cried the captive to
some rats, who sat looking on, " and I
will make with you an eternal alliance ! "
" We know better," they answered in
chorus. "Before long the pariah will
give you a taste of his heavy stick, and
then we will have one enemy the less ! "
and with a squeal of triumph they dis-
appeared in their holes.

" Appa ! Appa ! " wailed the crow.
" Will no one help me ? " " Cut the
net with your beak," suggested a lizard,
who was passing by. " I could not pos-
sibly do anything for you. Only yes-
terday you devoured another of my
kinsmen."

" Why," remarked a mangous, who
had been looking on with great interest,
" do you appeal only to animals who
know well enough that you would de-
vour them, were you free ? He who lets
you out will be a great fool." " You
help me to escape," pleaded the crow
in plaintive tones. " We have the same
enemies, and together we can wage war
upon all rats and snakes. There is force
in numbers." " I will," said the man-
gous, convinced by his reasoning ; " but
on one condition : I have always wanted
to make a pilgrimage to the banks of the
Ganges ; you must carry me thither on
your wings." The crow, enchanted with
this plan, accepted his new friend's condi-
tion at once, and the mangous began to
gnaw at the threads that bound him. So
soon as the bird was free, he took his
companion on his back, and flew up into
the air. But when he had reached a

204

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India. [February,

great height, he shook his feathers so
hard that the wretched mangous was
thrown upon the rocks beneath, where
he broke his back. The crow then
pounced upon him, and began to tear
him to pieces. " Is this your prom-
ise ? " said the poor victim as he writhed
in his death agony. " Why do you com-
plain ? " laughed the bird. " Did you not
yourself declare that he who would set
me free would be a fool ? "

Never count upon the gratitude of a
famished stomach.

Moral : If you hear a man call you
from the bottom of a pit, throw a stone
on his head ; for if you aid him to get
out, it will be he who will kill you.

As the crow laughed at the mangous,
so would the pariah make merry over
the idea of a good Samaritan, for he
judges all men by himself. The same
spirit of self-preservation and advance-
ment at any cost is the inspiration of all
the fables, and cunning is preferred to
strength. The fox, and not the lion, is
the favorite type. In one story, a jackal,
who cannot make way with a goat by
main force, entices it from its flock by
promises of superior pasturage, and
then, when out of reach of the goat-
herd, kills and eats it ; and this is a re-
minder to thieves that " that which
cannot be obtained by force must be
won by stratagem. He who profits by
the work and snares of others will never
be in need of food." In another, two
travelers dispute as to their respective
rapidity of movement, and, determining
to test their powers then and there, call
upon a pariah, whom they see in the
distance, to be umpire. He, as soon as
they are well started, seizes the lug-
gage, which they had left under a tree,
and departs with a speed of which
neither disputant can boast. And from
this tale the man who lives by his wits
learns that " one must always profit by
the quarrels of others, and derive benefit
from them." Virtue is declared to be

nothing but the covering of vice, — the
most virtuous man being in reality the
cleverest hypocrite, — and friendship is
measured by its usefulness. And so
they go on, forming one uninterrupted
eulogy of duplicity, hypocrisy, strata-
gem, and double dealing of every kind ;
totally ignoring the existence of such
qualities as honesty and charity, equity
and courage.

The fact is that pariahs have been
obliged to look so closely at physical
death that they no longer start at moral
shadows. They are more like the ideal
man of the Helvetius and D'Holbach
school of philosophers than any genuine
child of the forest. Once they have
eaten and been filled, they are wholly
without cares and anxieties, hopes and
regrets. When not engaged in the ac-
tive pursuit of their profession they are
absolutely free, having rid themselves
of all such hindrances as ambitions, con-
ventionalities, and responsibilities. They
are as comfortable in their tents and
huts as Rajahs are in their palaces, and
because they own no land all places
are alike their homes ; with them, Voir
c'est avoir. They can feed on carrion
with as much relish as on the daintiest
dishes ; and, careless of the morrow, will
squander in one night's spree the pro-
ceeds of a season's work. Their social
and family relations are regulated not
by any instinctive affection or sense of
duty, but solely by caprice. As a rule,
they are kind, friendly, and faithful to
each other ; but are quite as ready to be
cruel, indifferent, and treacherous, if it
suits them to be so. An Othello would
be an impossibility among men who
gladly purchase a life of laziness for
themselves at the price of their wives'
infidelity. A hen has greater maternal
instinct than pariah women, who at times
will leave their young children alone
in places where they are almost sure
to supply a meal for stray wolves ; and
at others, when the police attempt to
search their tents for stolen goods, take

1884.]

The Vagabonds and Criminals of India.

205

their infants by the heels and swing
them round their heads, threatening to
continue doing so unless the intruders
depart. Filial feeling, when it becomes
burdensome, disappears from their midst
as quickly as the mirage in the desert
fades away before the weary traveler.
Some of the most forlorn outcasts in
the jungle carry the old and infirm
members of their tribe far into the wil-
derness, and there, while life is still in
them, deliver them to the tender mer-
cies of beasts and birds of prey. " Ho !
ho ! " the eldest son of the poor victim
sings, in the words of a hymn composed
for the occasion ; " let us rid ourselves
of this old carcass. Ho ! ho ! the jack-
als will have a fine feast, but the worms
will fast."

The strongest emotion,' perhaps, of
which pariahs are capable, outside of
their interest in their bread studies, is
the wanderer's love for the free life of
the roads.

" Vie errante
Est chose enivrante,"

Beranger's Bohemiens sing, and there
are no men who have so keenly felt this
intoxication as Hindu outcasts. It is
with them a passion more akin to the
attachment of the tiger to the jungle, or
of the gull to the sea, than to the patri-
otism of Scot or Swiss. Probably in
the days when the influence of philos-
ophy and learning brought to the pariah
class by disgraced Brahmans was still
alive, there were philosophers of the
Hayraddiu Maugrabin type to explain
this emotion as an intense realization of
liberty. An exulting joy in freedom
breathes through some of the old Rom-
any ballads.

" Free is the "bird in the air,
And the fish where the river flows ;
Free is the deer in the forest,
And the gypsy wherever he goes :

Hurrah !
And the gypsy wherever he goes,"

is the refrain of an Austrian gypsy song.
But the modern Hindu wanderers no
more question their liking for a life of
roaming than the tiger or the gull an-
alyzes the instinct which leads one to
the jungle, the other to the foam of the
sea. They are happy in their tents, in
stormy weather as in sunshine, without
knowing or caring why. But their hap-
piness is dearly bought. It is only by
their ignorance that they escape that in-
crease of sorrow which comes with an
increase of knowledge.

Man might be content, Mephistophe-
les affirms, were it not for the heavenly
light of reason lent him from on high.
Pariahs long since extinguished within
them its faintest gleam, and therefore
find it easy to be satisfied with their lot.
Their satisfaction has in one way been a
blessing, since it has enabled them to
bear burdens which would have crushed
the spirit of stronger men. But it is
also their curse. One of the most pow-
erful factors in the world's progress has
been and is man's discontent with exist-
ing circumstances. Were it not for the
liberal party in politics, there would be
no reform. It is the rebellious rest-
lessness of the people breaking out in
civil wars which secures for them great-
er liberty. Because of their deaden-
ing system of caste, Hindus accept their
fate as inevitable, and do not question
the possibility of its amelioration or
change. Once the vagabond and crim-
inal classes ask themselves if they are
happy, and if they might not become
happier, then, but not till then, there will
be communists in India. Hell must be
harrowed before the heights of heaven
can be scaled. Until these outcasts have
tasted the fruit of the tree of knowl-
edge of good and evil, and have felt in
its full bitterness the degradation of
their social position, they will remain the
human animals they now are.

Elizabeth Robins.

206

Newport.

[February,

NEWPORT.

XVIII.

THE NIGHT-VOYAGE.

WHEN Oliphant arrived at New
York, the widespread rush and murmur
of the city's activity repeated, in its
different way, the buffeting and general
troubled noise of the waves at Newport.
He had escaped their haunting effect,
only to find himself standing on the
edge of a second, but human, ocean ;
and a leap into one seemed much the
same as a leap into the other. He did
not know where he was going, what he
was to do henceforth : he had no pur-
pose. To merge himself in this chafing
tide of humanity, not knowing what was
to be his future, struck him as little
more than another mode of suicide,
similar in its result to that of losing
himself in the currents of the sea.

Putting up at the Van Voort House,
he accompanied Roger and Mary in the
final ceremony of laying Effie in Wood-
lawn Cemetery ; then he went to his
hotel and did nothing. The next day
he made inquiries regarding a passage
to Europe, and secured the refusal of
a berth. Immediately afterwards he be-
gan planning a trip to California. In
short, he was aimless. I don't know
that it was his fault, especially. The
present century, which overflows with
the most pronounced aims of all sorts,
probably harbors more people who find
it impossible to have an aim than any
century heretofore.

On the third day, he received a letter
from Justin, detailing some roundabout
approaches which had been made by
Mrs. Chauncey Ware towards a recon-
ciliation, together with incidental items
of Newport news. Mrs. Ware had al-
lowed semi-official information to be
conveyed to Justin that she would rec-

ognize his marriage with Vivian if he
would abandon the musical profession,
and enter a certain banking-house where
she could procure him a reasonably
good position, with prospects of a part-
nership. Justin had said in reply, some-
what truculently, that his marriage was
recognized by the church, and to some
extent by mankind, and that he did not
think he would make a very good bank-
er ; but that, if his mother-in-law would
treat him with the courtesy he was pre-
pared to offer her, he thought they
could agree admirably. It appeared,
furthermore, that Count Fitz-Stuart
was believed to have ratified a treaty
with Mrs. Farley Blazer, by which he
consented to cede himself to Miss Ruth,
in consideration of sundry state obliga-
tions, which the count had incurred, be-
ing assumed by Mrs. Blazer; and that
the engagement of Lord Hawkstane and
Miss Tilly Blazer had been announced.

With regard to the latter piece of
gossip, Oliphant, who read Justin's com-
munication in Roger's office on Ex-
change Place, observed, " The milk and
water have coalesced at last. I don't
know which dilutes the other the most."

Justin's allusions to his own affairs,
however, set Oliphant thinking as to
how he could help the boy ; more par-
ticularly since Justin had remarked in
his letter, " I have entered on a harder
struggle than I foresaw, but I am not
afraid."

He went to his lawyer, the very next
morning. " I 'm about to go away from
New York," he said, " for an extended
absence. There are some little things
that ought to be arranged ; and I think,
to provide against accidents, I 'd better
make a new will."

The making of the will did not take
long, but in it there was a provision for
Justin. Oliphant did not expect that to

1884.]

Newport.

207

be of any immediate use ; but he wanted
to lead up to an arrangement which he
now proceeded to effect, whereby certain
regular payments were to be made to
Justin, in such a way that he could not
avoid accepting them, ostensibly to aid
the continuance of his musical studies.

He also inquired of the lawyer about
Raish, whose case he found had been
set to come up before Judge Hixon, in
the course of a month or so. " There
won't be the ghost of a chance for him,
I hear," said the legal adviser. " Great
pity — not so much on his account, but
for his excellent family connections.
His relatives will feel it severely."

On returning to the Van Voort, he
made up his mind to take the California
trip : somehow, though he believed that
he never should think of Octavia again
without a repulsion that fell little short
of animosity, he could not bring himself
to leave the country while she was in it.
And having come to his conclusion, he
wrote and posted a letter to Justin, an-
nouncing his speedy departure ; giving
him also a general sketch of what had
happened at his last visit to High Lawn.

The next afternoon's mail-delivery
brought him the few lines that had been
wrung from Octavia, the day before, by
her silent self-reproaches. If this mis-
sive had come a few hours later, it
would have failed to reach him, be-
cause, growing restless, he had deter-
mined to start that night for California.
As it was, he read it, folded it up, and
put it in his pocket with a slight sigh,
and a recurrent pang of the first wretch-
edness which Octavia's refusal had in-
flicted upon him. He took it as one
more evidence of the irony which had
controlled his whole career, that she
should not have come to her present
state of mind until she had wrought
irreparable havoc with him. Of what
use was her repentance to him, now ? t

Before beginning to pack, he read the
letter a second time, preparatory to burn-
ing it. But, as he read, a sudden and wild

thrili of renewed hope coursed through
him. Octavia's words developed, as he
thought, a double meaning. " I was
wrong in my treatment of you. . . .
Uncertain whether you will return here,
and even if you did so we should not
be likely to meet, I suppose." . . .
Might not these phrases be a roundabout
way of saying that she had erred in not
accepting his love, and wished that h^
would return and see her? He could
not reason about it ; he only felt ; and
his recent conviction that Octavia had
inspired in him a resentment amounting
to hatred did not seem worth even pass-
ing notice. California became an im-
possibility ; vanished, in short. It was
imperative to get to Newport. Too late
for the afternoon train, he telephoned
for a state-room on the boat. Every
room was engaged ; but this only stimu-
lated his eagerness to go. There was
not much time remaining, and hastily
packing up his things he took a coupe,
drove down through the city to the
wharves, and went on board the steamer,
with the intention of staying up all
night, or dozing in the big saloon.

Before the start, he met, in the crowd
of many hundreds that was drifting
about the loudly upholstered cabins,
clogging the stairs, and packing itself
away on the open decks, Perry Thor-
burn. " How did you come here ? " ex-
claimed Oliphant.

" I had to run on for a day, on busi-
ness," Perry explained, with a smile
which only half concealed some unpleas-
ant thought. He had really come to
look into his affairs, and to perfect a
scheme for making up as well as he
could the losses his father had inflicted
upon him. " The old man 's on board,
too. Got a room, have you ? " he con-
tinued. " Awfully crowded to-night."

" No," said Oliphant ; " but I 'm in
a hurry. I was just thinking I might
have taken the late train and got off
at Providence. The boat 's cooler,
though,"

208

Newport*

[February,

Perry offered him one of the berths
in his state-room, as he and his father
were separate ; but Oliphant declined
it, rather liking the idea of being alone
and of passing a sleepless night in rev-
erie upon his revived hopes.

Everything seemed strangely beau-
tiful and joyous to him. As the boat
swept around the Battery with easy,
omnipotent motion, and steamed up
East River, passing miles and miles of
masonry on either side, lined by cluster-
ing ships whose spars and rigging rose
in slim black lines against the back-
ground of dense brick or light sky, like
the characters of some unknown lan-
guage inscribed there, the scene stirred
and elated him by its might of human
interest. It soothed him, too. He knew
what misery and squalor swarmed upon
those river banks, and what anxious
hearts beat in myriads behind the long
front of populous buildings ; but he felt
that there was a dignity in the human
struggle, which was intensified by the
desperation of it, and redeemed much of
the pettiness and evil. He had had his
struggles, also, and could sympathize ;
besides, his present happiness filled him
with a livelier sense of human brother-
hood than he had felt for a long time.

The mellow light of a peaceful sunset
that was approaching suffused with de-
licious radiance the smoky heaps of dull-
toned architecture, and glimmered softly
on the gray-green waters through which
the steamer was plowing. The city
melted away like a dream; the Long
Island shore crept off towards the outer
ocean ; the green banks of Connecticut,
with rounded promontories and dim in-
lets, rolled by. The number of passen-
gers on the decks diminished ; the brass
band, which had been blaring with a
specious brilliancy at the after end of
the saloon, ceased playing : Oliphant
began to enjoy comparative solitude.
Perry joined him for a while, and they
went to supper with old Thorburn. Af-
terwards Oliphant and Perry smoked a

cigar or two on the after-deck. Finally
the widower was left entirely alone, and
went forward to the upper deck at the
bow.

It was night now. The stars were
shining in great multitude and beauty ;
the golden points or crimson spots like
fading coals, that marked the position
of lighthouses on either coast, came out
at irregular intervals, registering the
progress of the voyage, then sank back
into invisibility. The great steamer
proceeded on her way with throb and
beat and shudder ; with her four decks
— orlop, cabin, hurricane, main ; with
her double cordon of state-rooms ar-
ranged like a system of cells ; with her
masses of costly merchandise, her heter-
ogeneous crowd of costly passengers,
her colored lanterns that glowed above
her like luminous insects of large size,
hovering in the air and accompanying
her movement. There was no stir of
life upon her at this hour ; and Oliphant,
sitting close to the cabin wall, well
wrapped up against the night chill,
looked ahead over the dimly gleaming
Sound, and meditated. He was very
confident of his coming happiness ; all
his doubts were over ; there was a bound-
ing exultation in his blood. The frus-
trations and disappointments that had be-
set him all his life seemed to be at an
end ; he was sure that he was about to
enter upon that period of contentment
and enjoyable activity for the hope of
which we all live. How absurd his pass-
ing thought of suicide, a few days be-
fore, must have seemed to him then !

The steamer went on : the broad,
foamy wake behind her seemed to weave
itself into a record of the forsaken past,
and every pulsation of the engines was
to Oliphant like the expectant beat of
his own heart, moving towards a bright
future. A thin shrouding of mist was
drawn over the stars, after a while,
which was occasionally dispersed, and
then returned to dim the prospect. The
steamer began blowing signals now and

1884.]

Newport.

209

then from her pipes. Presently, signals
in a similar tone were heard somewhere
in advance ; a vessel of the same line
was approaching. The two damp and
screaming voices seemed to establish an
understanding, as the red and gold and
green of the other boat's lights came
into sight through the fog, like the
gleaming eyes of a monster. She was
steering to the right. Nevertheless,
suddenly she changed her direction,
swerved quickly around, and came swift-
ly towards the New York boat, head on.

There was a quick, excited ringing
of engine - room bells ; there was more
blowing of whistles ; but nothing served
to avert the catastrophe. The Newport
boat loomed up clearly in the fog, for
an instant ; and then there came a vio-
lent shock, followed by the ripping and
tearing and groaning of reuded wood.
The New York boat's engines stopped ;
she was fatally wounded by the other,
and floated helpless on the tide.

At once an indescribable tumult arose
among her passengers. The saloon
lights went out. Innumerable people
burst from the state-rooms like resur-
rected bodies, and ran madly hither and
thither in their white garments, silent or
with loud shrieks. The rush of scalding
steam, escaping from the engine-room
with a deep roar of release, partially
muffled these cowardly cries, and stran-
gled many of the flying figures ; but the
noise and tumult on board were strange-
ly in contrast with the silence of the
night that surrounded and shut in all
this trouble like a vast and stilly tomb.

A few found life-preservers ; others
seized upon chairs, or doors, which they
or some one else had wrenched off, no
one knows how ; and many who could
swim leaped overboard without anything
to aid them in floating. Everything
that occurred, all the things that were
done, occupied so short a space of time
that the results did not seem to proceed
from any conscious action. Countless
heads of people, swimming, struggling,

or drowning, were sprinkled in black
dots on the water.

The steamer had lurched somewhat,
but did not appear to be sinking. Im-
mediately upon the collision, Oliphant
had clambered up to the topmost deck,
and had gone aft that way. Perry Thor-
burn, who, in the midst of a frantic,
pushing throng on the open canopied
deck just below, was looking vainly
for his father, saw Oliphant leaning
down and peering over from above. He
shouted to him and pointed towards the
water, and Oliphant nodded. Still, some
minutes elapsed before he leaped : with
many others who could not swim, he
preferred to take the last chances on the
doomed vessel. In a minute or two,
however, after Perry had thrown him-
self from the rail, a twisted lance of
flame burst from the boat's side: fire
had broken out on board.

Perry was a good swimmer, and had
struck out towards the other steamer,
which, after recoiling from the shock,
had sheered off, and was now getting out
boats. But he paused very soon, treading
water and turning to look again for his
father. A quantity of broken timbers,
boxes, and other buoyant objects were
already drifting about in the water, and
he found it advisable to get hold of one
of these and rest a while. When the fire
leaped forth, he pushed still nearer the
wreck. The flames increased, and lit up
the broad, liquid surface around him : it
was then that he saw the bulky form of
his father sliding down a rope, which he
had evidently tied to a post and flung
into the water. Perry began making his
way in that direction. Old Thorburn
had not much skill in swimming, but he
succeeded in getting a little way out.
He kept casting about for some artificial
aid. Near him was a woman, with a
small child in her arms, who, almost by
a marvel, had got hold of a long bench,
and was sustaining herself by it. Thor-
burn came up with her and caught at the
wood, apparently much fatigued. The

210

Newport.

[February,

bench was not large enough to keep
them both up : the woman expostulated.

Thorburn was wild with the danger
of his situation. There was to him, no
doubt, something unsurpassably outra-
geous in the idea that he, the owner of the
steamer, with all his wealth, his power
in Wall Street and among the railroads,
his vast plans and teeming resources,
should not only sustain an actual heavy
financial loss by the accident, but should
be put in peril of his life, struggling
there in the salt tide like a common in-
dividual of the general public, or as if
he were of no more account than a
drowning rat. Small wonder if his heavy
mouth grew fierce and his indignant
eyes more belligerent than usual.

He began to pound the woman's hands
unmercifully, in order to make her loose
her hold.

Perry, who was still a good distance
away, shouted to his father, sharply :
" Don't do that, dad ! Stop, I say ! I 'm
coming." At the same time he was ex-
erting every muscle to propel himself
and his piece of flotsam to the spot.

It was virtual murder that was being
attempted before his eyes, and the per-
son who sought to destroy another's life
was his own father ! This Perry per-
ceived clearly ; and the sight of the deed
and the thought of its awful significance
were more abhorrent to him than any
danger of engulfment and drowning that
threatened himself. Words spoken by
a man in the water are necessarily some-
what gasping and uncertain in utter-
ance ; and whether it was from this
cause, or the plashing of the waves
around him, or the increasing hum of
the flames on the boat, or the conflict of
cries from other throats, old Thorburn
seemed not to hear his son's appeal. He
continued to beat the helpless woman,
encumbered by her child, and to tear
her hands away from her accidental raft.
So unequal a contest could not last
long. It was apparently but a few sec-
onds before the unknown woman yield-

ed, and dropped away from the frail
support. But at that supreme juncture,
with the fate of suffocation and death
closing upon her, the heart of the wo-
man was unselfish : it gave what might
prove to be its final beating, its last im-
pulse, to an effort on behalf of her still
more helpless baby, who, benumbed by
the unwonted situation, was not even
conscious of the deadly peril. She lifted
her child into the air as high as she
could with one arm, while with the oth-
er she vaguely and instinctively sought
to delay her sinking.

Just then Perry, who was drawing
nearer, saw another dark mass approach-
ing her, only a few feet away. It was
a man, clinging to a broken timber. The
man signaled the woman with a cry :
" Here ! " She heard him, and with a
last desperate turn and bewildered floun-
dering through the thick water she suc-
ceeded in grasping the means of rescue
that he offered. That, also, was very
slight ; insufficient for the floating of
two persons. But the man who had
called to her scarcely waited to test it
before he abandoned it entirely.

For an instant he lifted his face
heavenward, as if gazing at the stars,
which now beamed mildly down upon
the fearful and glaring spectacle of the
steamer in conflagration and her scat-
tered victims ; for the scurrying mists
had disappeared. Ay, thus he fronted
those stars, which Count Fitz-Stuart
had wearily dismissed as being " so old,"
and Raish had adopted as figuring the
glowing butts of cigars he had smoked.
Then he cast himself off, and disap-
peared beneath the low-crested waves.

While the face was turned upward,
however, the broadening wall of fire
from the steamer's side had shed upon
it a vivid illumination, and Perry had
been able to recognize the man.
It was Oliphant.

" Oliphant, old boy ! " he screamed
with hoarse desperation. " Wait ! Where
are you ? "

1884.]

Newport.

211

"Where? Where indeed ? no answer
came to Perry's shout. It was impossi-
ble to determine at the moment whether
Oliphant rose again, or not ; for, despite
the ghastly distinctness of the scene,
everything that happened was rapid, con-
fused, bewildering, and almost unreal.
The surface of the Sound seemed to have
grown smoother, as if subdued by a ter-
ror of what was taking place. Perry
swam close to the stranger woman, and
began assisting her. Boats had begun
to pick up some of the survivors. He
could not bear to approach or even look
at his murderous old father, who still
puffed, fumed, and splashed, in his efforts
to advance by means of the half-sub-
merged bench. The flames poured roar-
ing upward from the steamer, in deep
volumes, wide belts, thick -coils, volatile
spirals, — ruddy, crimson, or like melted
gold, — and the bones of the mighty
structure were heard to crack as if she
had been in the grasp of a fiery ana-
conda. Their terrific splendor was re-
flected in the flood so intensely, so uni-
versally, that Perry seemed to himself
to be swimming through a burning lake
of Hell.

Again came the question, where was
Oliphant? Perry could not abandon
the belief that, somehow or other, his
friend had been rescued ; yet the pic-
ture of that face looking starward was
stamped upon his mind ; he saw it sub-
siding into the vague, relentless wash
of the waves. He imagined the stalwart
but helpless figure of that quiet, manly
man going down, down, down into the
silent, unknown depths ; and he could
feel, very nearly as if it were his own
experience, the strangling sensation, the
struggle against suffocation, the final
dreamy resignation which, he had heard,
accompany death by drowning.

Meanwhile, high over the weltering
gleams, over the black eastward smoke
of the burning bulk, and the quivering
mirror of water that tremulously gave
back a glow of red, the stars hung

poised in eternal flight — calm, restful,
yet distributed over the sky as capri-
ciously as if they had just been lodged
in their places by some haphazard volley
from an exploded world.

XIX.

LOVE AT LAST.

Dana Sweetser, whose great cures
and responsibilities had aided in making
the ravages of time more apparent upon
his countenance, was engaged, on the
morning that followed the steamboat
disaster, in an elaborate toilet. He had
mourned at length over some colored
socks which his laundress had just re-
turned in a bleached condition, owing
to some vicious compound used in the
washing, and was reflecting upon the dis-
appointments of life, as he softened with
powdered magnesia the over-rubicund
tint which a liberal diet had begun to
bestow upon his nose, when his valet
burst into the room with a rumor of
what had happened. Two or three gen-,
eral telegrams had been received, which,
among other details, announced that Mr.
Thorburn had been lost. Dana was
terribly broken down by this informa^
tion : even his interest in his personal
appearance was pathetically subdued •,
and as soon as he could put himself dev
cently together, he sallied forth to gain
further particulars.

The report in regard to Thorburn
proved to be wrong ; for both he and
Perry were among the saved. There had
been a great sacrifice of life, but, consid^
ering the nature of the calamity, a sur-
prisingly large number of people had
been rescued. When the New York
papers arrived, after noon, with fuller
accounts than had yet been received, the
circumstance of one man attempting to
force a mother and child away from their
only means of safety was related, among
various other startling and curious par-

212

Newport.

[February,

ticulars which the survivors had given
to correspondents, and roused general
execrations ; but Thorburn, being un-
known to the mother — who had also
reached the shore alive — was not iden-
tified as the wretch. He was in New-
port by the time the papers came, and
was met by a great many telegrams and
sundry effusive callers, congratulating
him on his personal good fortune.

Perry remained at Watch Hill, the
nearest inhabited point on the coast,
whither the rescued had been conveyed,
and where many bodies of the drowned
either floated in or were brought ashore.
He was looking for some trace of Oli-
phant. . . .

Late in the afternoon he entered New-
port, completely exhausted, and drove
in a hired carriage slowly up Pelham
Street, unwilling to go to his father's
house, and bent upon engaging some
bachelor quarters which he knew had
been vacated a few days before. It was
a lovely afternoon : the declining sun
sent long, reddish rays between the old
white houses, soft beams that caught the
light dust and gave it a tint as delicate as
peach-bloom, or smote the outstretched
branches of trees, and woke them to
strange ardor of coloring, set off by the
cool green in shadow and the first dull
brown of changing foliage. A scanty
drift of fallen leaves was blown occasion-
ally along the sidewalks by the Septem-
ber wind, with a dry, rattling whisper.
The sunbeams twinkled, too, upon the
turning wheel-spokes that were plying
on the avenue, as Perry reached the
Park. A pink-coated fox-hunter crossed
the head of the street, with his nag at a
walk, holding his hunting-crop languid-
ly, and exhibiting himself in a light of
meritorious and manly fatigue : he was
doing the heroic, for the benefit of that
sybaritic society which rolled by him
so suavely in the comfort of its stylish
turnouts. Newport was still itself:
smiling, serene, light-hearted ; rejoicing
in the gentle gratification of being al-

most English. But the sight did not
soothe Perry : it sickened him. Life
at Newport, which a few days before
had seemed so proud, so splendid and
fair, became suddenly in his eyes a pre-
tentious patchwork, a thing of gorgeous
shreds and tatters, gay as a fool's mot-
ley, arid covering only a mass of petty
or flippant traits of character, bound to-
gether by a restless desire for superficial
pleasure. He had just been brought
face to face with the most fearful real-
ities ; he had witnessed an act of perfect
self-sacrifice ; and now, as he came from
that experience, with a burden of un-
speakable sorrow on his heart, tbis world
of ostentatious levity was a positive of-
fense to him.

He obtained the rooms he wanted,
sent for his own servant, and so'me
clothes from his father's house, and then
despatched messengers to ascertain
where he could see Josephine ; lying
down, meanwhile, to rest.

During the two days since she had
written to Oliphant, Octavia's mood had
been brightening. The fine warm ivory
of her cheeks took on a delicate tinge
of rose ; her vivacity, always fresh and
in force, was exquisitely, unconsciously,
varied by a tremor of feeling, a more
genial ardor of sympathy with every
one and with everything that was going
on, which made it doubly enchanting.
She did not dare to hope much ; she
scarcely reflected at all ; the claims of
the past upon her and the question of
loyalty to Gifford's memory retained
no hold. She confessed nothing except
that she was possessed by a sweet pre-
science that soon she should be at peace
with Oliphant and united to him. On
the night when he set out upon his
journey to Newport, she went to a large
ball given by the Spanish minister —
one of the last and most iridescent
phases of the expiring season. The en-
tertainment was dazzling in the high-
est degree. An immense tent had been
connected with the minister's house, ex-

1884.]

Newport.

213

tending over a large stretch of lawn ;
and in the interior, walled with an odor-
ous wilderness of extravagant plants in
flower, the dancing took place, on a
floor of perfect smoothness, made for
the occasion. The weather was warm,
and both in order to cool the place and
for the sake of decoration, a grotto of ice
had been contrived at the farther end,
through which changing lights of blue
and green and yellow fire were thrown
at intervals, transforming the glittering
blocks to a fluorescent mass. The whole
house was spectacular in the richness
and glow of its appointments, its illu-
minations, its floral adornment ; and the
dense assembly that circulated through
it flashed and shone with a fabulous
magnificence of beautiful costumes and
sparkling j ewel s. Octavia took her place
in the scene as a natural part of it, and
held her own with ease. She drew quiet-
ly to herself the best of attention ; she
danced frequently, with the greatest en-
joyment ; and those who had seen most
of her noticed the uncommon buoyancy
of her talk and bearing.

Yet, when the hour came for going
away, she herself was surprised at the
subtile depression that weighed upon
her. The ice-grotto had begun to melt,
and was on the point of collapse ; the
chemical lights had faded; and at just
about that time, the last satiated flames
that had consumed the steamef on the
Sound were throwing their exhausted
ribbons of fire into the melancholy air.

In her room, Octavia remained awake
for a while, to hear the approach of the
boat ; but its ominous though welcome
roll of thunder from the booming pad-
dles did not come to her ears. The
failure made her somewhat uneasy, yet
at last she fell asleep, without being
able to explain it, and slept on until,
near noon. When she woke, she had a
conviction that Oliphant would appear
before nightfall. She prepared herself
for that meeting, with the half-shy yet
tender and minute care that a woman

uses — in a tribute almost devout to the
lover's ideal of her — when she is on
the eve of seeing the man she holds
dearest. Not a detail of her personal
appearance was decided upon, without
reference to this great anticipation.

But alas, Oliphant did not come. On
looking at her paper, which for a mo-
ment did not seem to her worth reading
on a day that she believed was to be so
joyously memorable, Octavia's fluttering
expectations received an abrupt check ;
and soon, although she had heard not a
syllable from Oliphant and no hint of
him was given in the report of the disas-
ter, her suspense became unbearable.

" Do you know," she asked Vivian,
whom she immediately went to see,
" whether Mr. Oliphant was on board ? "

" Mr. Oliphant ! What put that into
your head ? " the bride exclaimed. " Of
course not. He 's. gone to California."

Octavia was bewildered, and began
to be pained by an unforeseen anxiety
lest he had not received her letter.
She told Vivian of her writing; and
then Vivian was puzzled, too. It was
resolved between them that Crai<r should

try, by telegraphing, to ascertain wheth-
er such a person as Eugene Oliphant
had been among the passengers.

The answer came to him at length,
in the night.

That same evening, also, Perry saw
Josephine. She was visiting again in
Newport ; but as it was two or three
hours before he slept off his fatigue, he
did not arrive at the house until nine.
When she met him, he was so pale, so
haggard, so worn, that she started back
in affright.

" What is it ? " she cried. " I heard
of the accident, after your messenger
came. Was your father really lost ? "

" No," said Perry, his voice choking.
" If you can come out, I will tell you."

Josephine threw a light wrap over
her shoulders, and they emerged into
the grounds, which were near those of
Octavia's villa. Without a word he

214

Newport.

[February,

walked down towards the water, and
she followed him. They could see the
bay dancing softly, mystically, in the
liijht of the new moon, while the boun-

O '

dary-trees in front of them blotted the
silvery radiance with a pattern of black,
twisted trunks, sharply and uncouthly
distinct. Then Perry paused.

" It was not my father," he said. " It
was Oliphant who was lost."

A cry of horror and of suffering
escaped from Josephine's lips. She
leaned forward, and hid her face upon
her arm, against one of the trees. For
the first instant, her emotion seemed to
Perry only what he might have ex-
pected ; but it lasted so long that he
began to question. With a rush, then,
the truth came to his mind.

" You loved that man ! " he ex-
claimed.

She lifted her head, at this, and met
his intense, jealous scrutiny without
wavering. There was a riddle in her
eyes, still, as there always had been,
and doubtless always would be ; and in
this semi-obscurity of the night it was
more than ever hopeless to attempt
solving that riddle. Her fac^i was very
white, he could see; yet he could al-
most have doubted whether 'the voice
which answered him came from the
softly moving lips, or from the shadows
that surrounded her.

" Yes," it whispered. " I loved him."

Something like an imprecation rose
to Perry's lips, but he only groaned :
" I wish I could have died in his
place ! "

" You must n't say that," Josephine
returned, with strange calmness, though
speaking hardly above her breath.
" You have no right to wish it."

" Why ? " he demanded, bitterly.

" Because it was fate. You must ac-
cept what fate brings."

" Ah, if it had brought me you ! "
he began, in a passionate way. " But
no ! You never could have married
me ; and even if things were different,

I could hardly offer myself to you now."
He went on rapidly, pouring out an ac-
count of the catastrophe and his father's
brutal conduct. " After that," he said,
" how should I hope to win a woman like
you ? The son of such a father ! I sup-
pose I have the same traits in me,
somewhere."

" But you 're not like him," Jose-
phine returned, coming suddenly to his
defense, against himself. " If you were
you would n't condemn him."

" Then you think there 's some chance
for me ? " he asked, giving way to a
slight laugh of scorn. It was succeeded
by a burst of earnest entreaty. " Oh,
Josephine," he cried, " is there any hope,
any possibility, that I may win you by
and by ? I will be content with any
love you can give, if you think you
might be happier with me than without
me. Only let me know if I may keep
this hope before my mind ! "

" I cannot speak of it now," she said,
in her mysterious tone, that was neither
cold nor warm, but .neutral, and shud-
dering a little. " It may be our fate —
but not now ; not now." After a si-
lence she asked, "Is this what you came
here to say ? "

" No," he assured her. " I want you
to help me in a difficult task. This news
must be broken to Octavia."

He then explained to her that he had
found upon Oliphant, tightly folded in
a letter case within a covered pocket,
the note Octavia had sent him. It was
somewhat water-soaked, but legible still,
and Perry had been able to guess from
it something of the events which had
inspired it.

Josephine consented to go with him
to High Lawn, and he waited outside
the door, while she went in to see Oc-
tavia.

"It is all over, Octavia," she said,
quietly, as the widow entered to greet
her. "You and I have been separated
lately; but there is no need of it any
more."

1884.]

Newport.

215

Octavia came up and caught her arm,
with a quick, apprehensive demand for
her meaning. Briefly and tenderly, as
well as she could, Josephine imparted
everything.

Octavia took the blurred letter, and
glanced at it for an instant ; then sank
into a chair, gazing wanly at the woman
who stood motionless opposite her. She
shrank, and seemed to wither visibly